


Theory of Serfdom

by Hamilkovsky



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (kind of), 1920s, AU, Abuse, Alcohol, Alternative World History, American Politics, Dystopia, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, History, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Disorders, Narcissism, No Romance, Period Typical Attitudes, Philosophy, Political Campaigns, Political Ideology, Politics, Psychological Horror, Psychology, Realism, Russian Literature References, Serfdom, Smoking, Thriller, Translation, Unhealthy Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25487860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamilkovsky/pseuds/Hamilkovsky
Summary: The 'Roaring Twenties' are marred by the outcome of the Civil War. The victory of the Confederation marked the beginning of a new political regime: slavery had long become a dead practice, but starting from unlimited freedom, the country arrived at unlimited despotism. The system had taken a fearful, frenzied form — serfdom, while Thomas Jefferson's 'Serf theory' became the new faith and code. Thereupon only those convicted of a crime deem worthy of penal servitude.John Laurens - a political criminal, becomes the victim of a pointless chase after the alluring dream of true love, that was never destined to come true.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 45
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The alternative history exploration. The topic of serfdom is used for exploration purposes, and serfdom as an institution is not sexualised nor fetishized nor used as a pretext for romance. If the topic is sensitive for you/you find it offensive, PLEASE avoid reading it. I would also like to mention that there is little to no romance in this book, and the relationship between the two main characters is not normalized. In other words, it's not a love story.
> 
> Inspired by Rogueangelll's "Not a Slave" series. Permission received. 
> 
> Translated from Russian. More chapters on Ficbook — https://ficbook.net/readfic/9292098

There are chance meetings with strangers that can easily turn the human soul upside down. While recalling our acquaintance now, I would even ascribe it to some sort of presentiment. I do not believe in love at first sight. However, when I think of the ordeal that this meeting had brought upon me, I understand that perhaps I had been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in myself and my convictions even back then. Truthfully, back then I did not know that this presentiment might be the promise of a future crisis and of my future resurrection.

There are chance meetings with a particular sort of lovers, those who are always ready to fly at one another, and yet cannot separate. This is exactly how our affair turned out to be: sudden and muddled. While the noose has not tighten around my neck, and as long as my feet are still on the ground, I will continue recalling this pale face. His eyes—though generally taken for black— were of a maple syrup color, and although they ever appeared so indifferent and tired, there have always been a scared and wistful look in them. I do not know if he was raging at his stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that had later brought him to madness.

My conscience stays clean. A horrible action, that I have risked in the attack of anger and panic, spared me from the unimaginable burden of first love. It is only in that I recognize my criminality, only in the fact that I had not done it earlier.

I beg the reader to assure himself of the truth of a story in which most of the characters, with the exception of, perhaps, myself, are still alive. 

_***_

However, my story began long before our acquaintance. I was arrested on the 5th of July, 1920. There had been little difficulty in my trial. I adhered exactly, clearly to my statement, and did not confuse nor misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in my own interest. This fell in with the most recent fashionable 'Serf theory' (wich I shall describe in its proper place), so often applied in our days in criminal cases. Finally the court admitted that it was possible that the crime could only have been committed by instinct.

On the 1st of September I was sentenced to death penalty, on condition of the fact that the penalty would happen only after a year. The time had been given so I could use the opportunity and be sold into lifelong serfdom; some elements in the case did much to soften the sentence.

Now it was August 31st, 1921.

I was standing at the auction podium. My heart was beating violently, and my brain was in a turmoil. The monthly auction took place on the main square of Charleston. The heat that day was stifling, and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly painted planks. A loud din, the sound of wheels, yelling and clattering were merging into a single cacophony. A crowd of black men were thronging round the podium; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. The auctioneer was walking around them. His face, fleshy and pink as a peach, was twitching in obvious irritation. I stood right next to the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bold, with big eyes and swollen lips. There were women of forty, but some were not more than seventeen. Everyone on the square, except for maybe auctioneers, were criminals.

Prison put me through hell: the terrible impossible gulf laid between me and all the rest of prisoners. I was amazed to see how they all loved and prized life. It seemed to me that they loved and valued it more in prison than in freedom.

Not only they did not share my way of looking at things, but thought of me as a madman. Every time, after going through another painful, unimaginably humiliating battery, I would entertain a hope of being beaten to death.

I was neglecting food, practically starving myself, only not to be sold. I did not desire that, deciding that I shall not follow the letter of the law any longer.

After a year spent in prison, I didn't have a choice: as a punishment for the "unpardonable crimes" against the American government, the hanging awaited me on the 1st of September. I was standing still, covered by baggy linen, with my hands tied firmly. Loaded gentlemen (sometimes accopmpanied by wives) were pacing the square with their noses turned up. From time to time, they would stop by the auctioneer to ask a question.

I stood all by myself; The second week in prison, my turn came to be sold with my gang. The quarrelling happened. Everyone was sold, except for me.

Sometimes the curious gentlemen would approach me, from pure interest, and ask why did I look like a stray dog. I was extremely skinny, not particularly tall, all strewn with freckles, befrizzled and beaten up. I didn't have to answer: the auctioneer would immediately satisfy the customers' curiosity: "That one is no good. He's crazy".

I tried to hang myself a couple of times, and I regret to say that I did not achieve anything. Objecteless life, and in the future a continual suffering—that was all that lay before me. And what comfort was it to know that in a month I would only be twenty-one? What had I to live for? To live in order to exist? Why, I had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a fantasy. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of my convictions that I had thought myself a man to whom it was more permissible to commit a crime than to others. I was comforted by the thought that everything was going to be over by the end of the auction. I would prefer to end my life as a slave of God, rather then the slave of a human.

However, this triumph ended when a man approached me. I could barely recognize the face: it was a gentleman of a stiff and portly appearance, no longer young. He was not particularly good looking: dark hair, sharp black eyes, a goatee. The gentleman seemed vaguely familiar to me. The auctioneer came to the podium shortly after.

"No bets, you say?" inquired the gentleman, eyeing me.

"No, Mr. Hamilton," answered the auctioneer, a bit out of breath. "That one is way to skinny. Moreover, he is ill..."

"Hamilton," I thought. "So that's how it is. Alexander Hamilton".

Evidently Hamilton was a familiar figure here: a laird who rose rom rags to riches. His story, in veiled words, had appeared in every newspaper. It was too dainty a bit of gossip not to spread about at once like wild fire. However, I had come across his face only once: on a newspaper page.

Hamilton raised his eyebrows.

"So he has pox? Or maybe typhus?"

The auctioneer shook his head.

"No, sir. You see, he is... a madman. Any serf 'round here would be much smarter than him. He is to be executed tomorrow: too unsellable."

Hamilton fell into musing.

"If I had it my way," continued the auctioneer. "I would hang fools like him with my own hands."

Hamilton started examining me. I frowned.

"What is it with him?" I thought, "Is he really searching for pox?"

"Well, I do not share that attitude. Write down my name," said Hamilton suddenly.

I was startled, naturally, but the really surprising thing was that he had not said that before. Something in his leisurely movements and the confidence in his voice suggested that Hamilton has made this decision almost instantly.

"For him? Wait..." 

" _Oui_. Write down my name."

I was aghast and terror-stricken; the auctioneer was simply astonished. He clenched his teeth and pulled the notebook out of his breast pocket.

"As you wish. What is the bid?" 

Hamilton glanced at me, beckoned the man closer and whispered something in his ear. The auctioneer widened his eyes, looked around and mumbled: 

"You must have not understood... Any single bid should not exceed five hundred dollars... " 

"Let it be four hundred and ninety nine, then," said Hamilton in the cheekiest voice.

"Pardon?!' I could not keep up the character. Both men gazed at me simultaneously.

"I didn't give you the permission to talk," hissed the auctioneer.

There was a darkness before my eyes. I would be surprised if the bid turned out to be half, even third of what it was. This gentleman, however, has bid the highest possible price and, in fact, has tried to bid even higher... The auctioneer would always talk me down, excluding any possibility of the selling. Perhaps some of my father's enemies were stuffing his pockets with dirty money. Feeling his power to the full, he ended by not putting himself out for anyone, calling me 'a leper' and 'ill'. Possibly on purpose, indeed, he used to beat me hard enough to leave bruises.

The bidder smiled and turned to go away. I stood there until the end of the auction — with a load on my heart and blank, immovable despair in my soul.

The auction ended at two o'clock. All the sold serfs fell into loud rejoicing. Happy laughter filled the square, and I alone—in gloomy and earnest reflection— did not make a sound, waiting for someone to pick me up from the auction house.

"This is truly embarrassing", I mused. "What have I done to deserve such punishment? A year spent in captivity, and why? To be sold one day before the execution? Unfair! And if my owner had been of unalloyed gold, and not such a parvenu, I would never have consented to become a serf! For myself, to save my life, I would never..."

Although I tried to put on a most indifferent look, still my face must have expressed all the sadness I felt. No more batteries, no more squabbles and quarrels. My life was about to get much worse. Being a son of a wealthy laird, I knew all about dark, vile things that masters did to their servants. The public and the police did not care about such atrocities.

How the documents were signed, and how I was taken from the square I do not remember. it was as though a fog had fallen upon me, and my mind had been clouded at times. I can only remember that all the sold serf were herded into some wooden shed, ordered to strip, and then sprayed with soapy water. We were given fresh clothing. 

Someone tied my hands and led me outside, where a silver automobile was already waiting for us. Hamilton stood in front of it, his elbows on the hood and a hat in his hands. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. I tried to believe that the power he had over me meant nothing. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, I resolved to behave as if he did not exist.

The entire ride to the train station was spent in a constrained silence. A new-found owner kept slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his seaweed-colored trousers.

"I am Alexander Hamilton. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?' said he, breaking the silence. I did not bother to look at him.

'And you have not yet told me your name'.

I signed heavily. Hamilton started tapping his foot impatiently. Silence.

"The car is not mine," continued he. "I am from New-York... Is there anybody who would ship a car from state to state? I would not. _Entre nous soit dit_ , I could not choose between the good old Fiat and Rolls Royce..."

Having no knowledge about automobiles, I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn't been standing in the stifling heat for the entire day in order to discuss such nonsense. Hamilton had not uttered a word since then. It seemed to me that he grew more confused as we got closer to the train station. I was a terrible conversationalist.

"So, your eloquence and talkativeness were a mere rumor all along?" asked he, when we finally got on the train.

"It is very possible," I mumbled.

Hamilton smirked and relapsed into reading a newspaper. After a while he offered me a cigar, and, when the offer was silently rejected, started smoking himself. Clouds of tobacco filled the coupé.

"So that's how it is" he mumbled thoughtfully. "Just a hog-wash. But really, it is very impolite..."

"Leave me be."

"I saved you from death."

"No, you bought me. Freedom, peace, soul even, all, all are bought, like on the animal market. You better end me, Hamilton, but kindly in due form and don't play with me."

Then I added:

"Nothing can be worse than the life of a serf."

Hamilton answered with a long, questioning, yet not very surprised look.

"Unbelievable. It is hard to make you speak, but when you do..." 

"Laws of this country are imbecilic. Just for the record."

Hamilton smirked at my words and flipped a newspaper page.


	2. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ready.

_Slavery or involuntary servitude (hereinafter referred to as serfdom) shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction, only as punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted._

_— The United States Constitution, 13th Amendment._

MY GRANDFATHER—a retired Confederate soldier— was an unusual type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type hot-tempered, bold, possessed of remarkable physical strength. Perhaps The Civil war was one of the most grateful recollections of his youth: when I was a child, I happened to hear enough breathtaking stories. He was very fond of recalling the two days of The Second Battle of Bull Run, describing a disgraceful retreat of the Union. With a sinking heart, I was listening to endless tales straight from the battlefield; I was hoping that I could carry out my grandfather’s deed someday. His “Southern beliefs” at the time made him specially eager for any action after the war, for he was passionately anxious to make a laird career in one way or another. He invested his veteran wage into a plot of land, where a vegetable plantation was later organized. You can easily imagine what a father such a man could be and how he would bring up his children: Henry Laurens, my father, turned out to be his exact copy. 

My mother was a frivolous girl from the capital, charming as she was, whom my father married in his early and unthinking youth. That’s why in 1900, thirty five years after the war, when I, John Laurens, was born, Sir Henry came to the decision that he should undertake the education and the whole intellectual development of his first son in the capacity of a superior sort of teacher and mentor. I was tutored at home every morning until noon, studying exact sciences, languages and theology. Father did not hesitate to use a belt and a rod, for he was eager to raise a true gentleman out of me. Since I was a child, I was accustomed to be proud of the Confederation victory and to honor the feat of our soldiers. Father frequently discussed the value of the 13th Amendment with me: “We, the white race, may not be considered dominant anymore,” said he, “But the very core of our convictions stays the same. White over colored, white over white, it matters not. Remember, Jack: we, the Laurens, shall always stay at the top of this pyramid.”

Back then, I could not even think how absurd these words will seem to me in the future. 

***

HAMILTON’S RESIDENCE lay on the outskirts of New-York, two hours away from the Pennsylvania Station. Squeezed between giant spruces, which surrounded it like a solid green wall, the house appeared as something substantial, yet alien. Our taxi pulled up on a driveway, right in front of the tall iron gates. Hamilton thanked the driver, got out of the car, went round it and opened the door for me; my hands were still tied.

I had felt an insurmountable repulsion for ‘the owner’ at the first glance. Though I knew nothing special about him, he had already made an unpleasant impression by his air of haughtiness, and at the same time almost timorous aloofness. Upon noticing my complete indifference, he ceased trying on smiles and spent the entire ride reading newspapers. Externally, Hamilton was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words, without frivolity. I’ve never liked people of this kind. The general irritation in me was also caused by his physiognomy — badly shaved and always tired. 

It was a two-storey mansion, surrounded by shrubs of ilex and eglantyne, with brickwork new under a thin beard of raw ivy; the narrow gravel pathway led to the front door. The master of the house untied my wrists and put his hand on my shoulder. 

“Welcome home,” he declared almost with solemnity.

I shrugged and took a step to the side. 

“Do not touch me”, I warned, glaring. “ ‘tis not my home and it will never be.” 

Hamilton frowned, but did not say anything. We went to the front steps and entered the house. 

The living room was dark, cold, and was well, almost pretentiously, furnished, with its round table, its divan, and its bronze clock under a glass shade. It was past midday, and if the curtains weren’t down, it would be rather light in the room. I have been meaning to ask why don’t we turn on the lights or open up the curtains, but decided against it. As is often the case in old houses, the staircase to the second floor was narrow, very dark and made of marble. A chandelier adorned with lustres hung by a bronze chain from the ceiling. _“Expensive, but tasteless,”_ I concluded. Hamilton pointed at the velvet divan and asked me to sit down. He himself sat in front of me, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the armchair and his chin in his hand. 

“Your reticence amazes me,” he said after a brief pause. “Don’t worry; forasmuch as, I am not a chatty one myself.”

I nodded, staring into dark space behind his back. 

“However, I expected to find out at least something about you… Except for everything I’ve read in the newspapers.”

“I … I think that’s no matter to you.” 

“True,” he crossed one leg over the other. “But still, out of simple politeness, I am obliged to waste my time on you. In this house, I shall always cherish politeness. And therefore, I would prefer you to be rather courteous than open. 

A somewhat grandiloquent style of his speech outed him as a politician. I winced. 

“Now,” continued he. “Come, be polite and tell me your name”. 

I kept quiet. After almost a moment of expectation, Hamilton shrugged and smiled strangely. 

“Well, keep your silence then. It seems like I have to come up with a new name for you…”

At last I lost all control. 

“It’s nonsense. My name must be familiar to you from the documents. And the newspapers…” 

“Yes, but I do expect you to be—” 

“John,” I answered with vexation. “My name is John.”

Hamilton smiled and got up from the armchair. At the same moment his face resumed its original satisfied expression.

“Nice to meet you, John. Well, I do not have any errands for you today. Go for a walk, rest. I shall call the maid; let her show you the ropes. 

I nodded and got up as well. 

“Wonderful. See you later.”

With those words, Hamilton mounted the stairs and disappeared in the darkness of the second floor. I was left alone in the middle of the living room, looking about me with a kind of a nervous hurry. After pacing from side to side and not discovering anything special, I decided to go upstairs. There I found multiple bedrooms, presumably for guests. A peculiar circumstance attracted my attention: there was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, as though the floors in the rooms hadn’t been washed for many days (or maybe I was just imagining things). It was very dark upstairs — perhaps even darker than on the first floor. All the rooms were empty. I anticipated to meet at least someone from the local servants, but did not find a single soul. At home, there have always been more serfs than members of the household, and sometimes it was impossible to step foot in the mansion without stumbling upon a maid, a butler or a cook. 

I slipped downstairs. My legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon me. I longed to wash and then lay somewhere. The feeling of intense resentment, which had begun to oppress and torture my heart while I stood on the auction podium in South Carolina, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that I did not know how to escape from my wretchedness. I went to the closest window and opened the curtains: I starved for sunlight. The window had a view of the courtyard: the flower garden and the decorative fence. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew me on. I walked out of the living room, passed a narrow hallway, opened the front door and went outside. Then I went round the house and found myself in the garden. It was an amazing, picturesque world: a fine, sumptuous garden in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the fence; I was so weary after a whole year of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy anticipation, that I longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world. However, except for the wonderful flowers, there was something else that drew my attention.

Surrounded by the shrubs of lilac, a girl stood in the heart of the garden. She was young, sixteen, perhaps not more than fifteen, years old. Dark-skinned, skinny and short, she wore a black cotton dress, with a white apron round her waist and a white cap on her head. Upon noticing me, she smiled. 

“Ah, blessed it be the day!” the girl greeted.

 _“Haven’t heard that greeting for a while,”_ I thought. 

A light of infinite geniality, and maybe even interest came into her eyes. I don’t now why, but I instantly felt an inexplicable compassionate sympathy towards this girl.

“Blessed it be the day,” I nodded.

“You must be John,” the girl took a step forward. “His Excellency, Mr. Hamilton, told me to find you… Good God, forgive me for not coming. I’ve sat in the garden for too long…

“Why, don’t worry yourself. For that matter, I had the pleasure of… Being by myself for a little while.”

“Wonderful… Well, let us go.” 

The girl paused, and then, as though she remembered something, added: 

“My name is Vella. I am Mr. Hamilton’s maid.” 

I bowed my head.

“Pleasure to meet you, miss… Wait, when did Hamilton manage to give orders? For what I remember, he went upstairs immediately.” 

Vella giggled.

" _Mr._ Hamilton called me from the upper window.”

We left the garden and began walking towards the front doors. 

“So, you had the time to explore the house?” inquired she.

“Yes, briefly,” I nodded. “What surprises me, is that I haven’t met any other servants… Did everyone just go to sleep?” 

“Not at all,” Vella answered, “We only have a cook and me.”

I frowned. 

“In the entire mansion?” 

“In the entire mansion, yes. Mr. Hamilton enjoys peace and quiet. ‘I become hostile to people the moment there is too many of them’, that’s what he says. He suffers from terrible migraines sometimes… So don’t question him too much about anything if you see him frown."

I smirked. _“Maybe that’s why it’s pitch dark in the house…”_

“Anyhow, all men work outside.” 

“Outside? What do they do?” 

Her words made me suspicious. ella shrugged. 

“They grow vegetables. We’ve got a vegetable garden.” 

She led me into the house.

“We should find some clean clothing for you first,” she said pensively. “And then…”

“I would be happy to rest,” I admitted. 

“Of course,” Vella said hastily. “You must be tired… I forgot it, completely forgot it! Don’t you worry, I will take you to your room afterwards.”

“Thank you.”

We mounted the stairs, passed quickly through the dark hallway and turned to the left. The dressing room consisted of chests, wardrobes and high coat racks. I noticed one of these racks, the longest one, with a dozen identical dresses hanging from it. They were similar to the one that my companion wore. 

Vella walked to one of the chests and began rummaging in it. She then handed me the clothing. Her choice surprised me: she held a starched dress coat, a waistcoat, a white shirt and black pants. It resembled the attire of a lackey, maybe even a private secretary, and did not look like proper clothes for gardening. 

“Am I really going to work in the gardens like this? Сouldn’t we adopt a special uniform, for instance, some shirts...” I asked in bewilderment. 

“Why are you so completely certain that you will work in the gardens?” 

She looked confused.

“But you told me that all men work outside…” 

“Ah, not quite. Well, to be exact, yes, but in your case… Mr. Hamilton has been looking for a butler for a while now.” 

An intense, almost unbearable relief overwhelmed me for an instant: after all, I didn’t want to dig dirt or chop wood. But I immediately remembered about my unenviable position, that it did not really change, and was ready to bite my hands because of the sudden annoyance that fell upon me. 

“Does it mean that I am to become his butler?”

“I assume so.”

After handing me the clothes, Vella opened two hulking patent cabinets which held all kinds of suits, dressing-gowns and ties.

“Since we are here,” began she. “And since you are to become the butler, you must have some knowledge about the wardrobe of His Excellency…”

A loud title, that Vella used to refer to the master of the house, sounded so ridiculous that I winced. 

" _Is he some sort of marquis?_ " I thought with vexation.

“Everything you might need is here” continued the maid, “There are some wardrobes in the attics for things Mr. Hamilton doesn’t often wear. Traveling clothes and such.”

“What about the cufflinks? Do I choose them or does he?”

“Lay them out unless he asks for something in particular. These for parties, these for meetings, and these only in New-York.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

“Yes, you will have to.”

Vella kept talking, but I did not listen anymore. 

“You are a serf. Not a wage-earner.” I said suddenly. Vella paused and fixed her piercing, surprised eyes upon me.

“A funny work, is it not?” continued I. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, you live in all of this. The luxury is within your reach, but none of it is yours. Nothing is yours.” explained I. 

“I don’t understand, Mr. Laurens,” mumbled Vella. “I am a _serf,_ but what of it?”

“And it doesn’t bother you? Such injustice?” 

Vella frowned and uttered suddenly:

"Slaves, in reverent fear of God submit yourselves to your masters, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh. For this finds favor— if for the sake of a consciousness of God one bears-up—”

“While suffering sorrows unjustly." I finished instead of her. “So it doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t at all,” the girl answered confidently. “Do you believe in God?”

“I do.”

“Do you believe literally?”

“Literally. However, I do not always agree with His Word. Just like right now.”

Her face changed. She glanced at me with coldness. 

“Fine. You wished to rest, as far as I remember?” 

“Yes, please,” confirmed I, eager to avoid this weird conversation.

 _“Why on earth would I bring that up,”_ I thought, while we were walking down the stairs. _“Loose lips sink ships!»_

The little room into which we walked, with dark paper on the walls and muslin curtains in the window, was brightly lighted up at that moment by the sun. Perhaps it was the only light room in the house. The furniture consisted of a plain bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe and an old arm-chair that had lost its arms.

“Your room,” said Vella. “The restroom is the opposite door. Would you like to wash?” 

“Ah, no, I… I shall do it tomorrow morning. Thank you.” 

Vella nodded slowly. It seemed like our conversation had made a vague impression on her. We were silent for a moment. 

“I didn’t intend to seem strange,” I said seriously. “Trust me, without offense, my belief does not differ from yours, and I… Do not judge you for anything…” 

The girl smiled and shrugged it off. 

“Of course. Have a rest, Mr. Laurens. See you tomorrow.” 

With that, she left the room and closed the door. I sat down on the rigid mattress and sighed heavily. Suddenly, a feeling long familiar to me flooded my heart. I wiped my eyes, undressed, got under covers and soon sank into a deep, yet anxious sleep.

_“Welcome home…”_

***

  
  


“Get up! Why are you asleep?”

I woke up immediately, hair soaked with perspiration, and rose up in confusion. It was light outside the window, but the room was not lightened up by the sun. “So it’s morning…” 

“Get up!” 

I turned around. A black woman of forty stood in the doorway; she wore a grey headscarf and an apron. Her dark eyes flashed. 

“You should’ve woken up two hours ago!” the woman swooped down on me like a hawk. “What, Vella didn’t tell you?” 

“She didn’t…” I mumbled in confusion. Half-awake, I had trouble remembering who Vella was. 

“Oh God,” the woman cried. “Get up and go to the kitchen. There’s plenty of people, I ain’t got time to make breakfast for you.” 

She left. I growled and rubbed my temples. The sleep had not refreshed me at all: I woke up in a broken and devastated state, even worse than the day before. The sight of a servant woman made me writhe with nervous irritation. I wanted to get under covers and hide, like a tortoise in its shell. 

I stood up, put on a shirt, pants and a creaky dress coat. During a year spent in prison, I had completely lost touch with fashion. In the restroom, I was going to wash my face, but instead, upon seeing myself within the looking-glass, had frozen completely. I saw a man exactly like myself—my Döppelgänger. The face —pale and drowsy— was mine. But the body — clothed in a formal dress-coat, with a bow-tie around its neck, did not belong to me. There was darkness before my eyes. I shook my head and splashed cold water on my face. The ugliest of illusions vanished immediately, leaving me with a long familiar feeling of dread.

After getting over the nervous tremor, I went to the kitchen. The sunlight, bright on the kitchen table and dull on Vella’s hair, glinted along the room. Upon noticing me, the maid smiled. 

“Good morning, Mr. Laurens…”

“Mornin’.”

She gave me a worried look.

“But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too?”

“Didn’t get much sleep.” I said abruptly. 

“Here, we‘ve brewed you some coffee…” 

I was going to thank her, but instantly a heavy tread shook the floor. The woman from before swept into the kitchen, as if a dozen chefs awaited her orders here. I assumed it was the cook.

“Well, what are you sitting around for?” she mumbled. “There’s a lot of things to do.” 

“Which things, miss Batrow?” 

“You know which.” The woman went to the stove and picked up the lid of one of the pots. “And yet you’re sitting here, makin’ eyes…”

Vella blushed in terrible confusion.

“A am not!”

The cook peek into the cezve.

“And for whom is the coffee? Mr. Hamilton asked to bring coffee upstairs…” 

“It is for Mr. Laurens.” 

The cook turned around, as if she had not noticed me earlier. 

“Mr. Laurens will be fine,” she said calmly without so much as a blink.

“Wait…”

"For the record, Smith," Miss Batrow took a cup from a cupboard. "If not you, Mr. Laurens would have already started working..." 

"Come on, Miss Batrow! He doesn't yet have anything to do," 

“If so, he could wash the dishes…” 

I remember now with what hungry interest I began to follow their argument. I could not understand, among other things, how these people—with no life at all— remained human and found the strength to scold at each other. It had almost encouraged me. But my animation vanished as quickly as it appeared:

"I beg your pardon."

All those present immediately turned to the doors, in which the owner of the house stood. Hamilton seemed kind of rumpled: there were dark bags under his eyes, and his jaw looked like a stiff greyish brush. However, he was dressed exquisitely, in a light and loose dress coat, light summer pants, and everything about him was fashionable and spick and span.

“I asked to bring me coffee, if I am not mistaken.” said Hamilton with an air of strong fatigue. His speaking voice, a gruff husky _alto_ , added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. 

“Graciously forgive us, Your excellency…”

“It is fine.”

Hamilton walked to the cook, took a cup from her, poured some coffee and began drinking hungrily. I glanced at him carefully: dressed as though to go out, he did not seem to be intending to do so. After finishing his coffee in a single sip, Hamilton wiped his lips, looked at me and smiled tiredly. 

“Good morning, John.”

My mood, which had almost risen after the conversation between the maids, had gone even worse. In response, I just nodded and stared away glumly. He stood for a time, looking straight at me, motionless. 

“Have you eaten?” he asked finally.

“Sorry, Mr. Hamilton, I was preparing dinner for the men. Nobody has had breakfast yet.” Miss Batrow interrupted. “Besides, Mr. Laurens overslept…”

“D'accord. In that case, let him have breakfast. I shall wait in the living room.

Then he nodded his head and left without saying another word.

“Today His Excellency is in a wonderful mood…” Vella remarked.

“Yeah,” agreed the cook. “Nothing pleases him more than returning home.”

I sat at the table like a block and stared in silence, completely confused.

  
  
AFTER FINISHING my breakfast, which consisted of a bowl of runny oatmeal, I went into the living room. Hamilton sat in a chair with his left hand resting on the back of it, and was reading the morning newspaper.

“Have you managed to get to know Theodosia?” asked he, not taking his eyes off the newspaper page. 

“Get to know _whom_?” I did not understand.

“Miss Batrow,” explained Hamilton. “She is a spirited lady, yes, short-tempered, but righteous...” 

I nodded, shifting from foot to foot. Perhaps upon noticing some awkwardness in my behavior, Hamilton got up from his chair and went towards the stairs.

“Let us go.”

We wandered around the house for half an hour or more, Hamilton muttering all sorts of wisdom and explaining why exactly he needed a butler. I was very absent; I was nodding, evidently with no idea of what I was nodding about. We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in silk, through supply closets and bathrooms. Finally we came to his own apartment —these were the simplest rooms of all— a bedroom, a bathroom and an office. We did not enter the office, however.

“Do not ever enter my office.” he warned.

“Why?”

“Because I said so. It is my own place for contemplation.”

He was at first silent for ten seconds, and then asked, not in the tone of the conversation:

“Vella is a lovely girl, is she not? Such a soft, gentle creature…” 

“M-m...” 

A sudden question took me off guard. There was a strange fixity in Hamilton’s gaze: he stared at me, thoughtfully, as if trying to convey some sort of message. Alas, I did not understand him at all. 

“And her smile is really very sweet,” continued he. “Lots of people are attracted to such girls.” 

I must say, at that moment I found myself more confused than I had ever been before: maybe from the essence of the question asked, maybe from the fact that this man was trying to have a friendly conversation with me. I almost began the generalized evasions to avoid answering, but he was faster:

“What about you?” 

The entire discussion was a great embarrassment; it felt so unpleasant for me that I had almost snapped and left. Ten seconds, maybe more, were spent in actual struggle. Then, to my relief, everything resolved by itself: the doorbell rang.

“Ah! It must be the delivery,” exclaimed Hamilton. “Come, open the door.”

Rejoicing at the opportunity, I ran down the stairs and headed towards the entrance-hall. My anxiety did not flag, and every moment my irritation grew more intense. In all this behavior of his there was something which really did offend me, but I could not understand what it was exactly. 

I unlocked the door and opened it. A man in a broad-brim stood on the porch; there was a truck parked right in front of the gates. 

“Who are you?” I asked with no hesitation. 

“I have a shipment, Sir,” said the man in visible confusion. “from the grocer’s…” 

Pressing lightly on my shoulder to make me move, Hamilton stepped onto the porch.

“Wilson, good morning,” greeted he. 

“Mr. Hamilton, Sir,” the delivery man raised his hat, “I brought everything as fast as I could.” 

“Just in time,” Hamilton nodded. “I have paid in advance, for what I remember?” 

“Yes. I have unloaded the boxes, but if you wish, I could as well bring them to the porch...”

“There is no need. My butler will handle it.” 

“Fine.”

Later, having bade farewell to the delivery man, Hamilton pointed at the gates. 

“Carry the boxes into the house. And try not to drop anything.” 

I crossed the yard, and at once saw near the gates a pile of boxes. _“Damn him,”_ I thought with vexation, _“threw it all in a heap and got away!”_

The boxes were three feet long each, made of rough-hewn planks. I rolled up my sleeves and tried to lift one of them. My hands tensed, trembled, and the heavy box fell to the ground. I bent down and spent about a minute trying to pick it up.

“Why, it's beyond anything...” I mumbled, almost filled with despair. 

“What takes you so long?”

I turned to the gates. Hamilton gazed down at me with the interested, yet almost irritated face. 

I straightened up and gritted my teeth.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I said distinctly. “I cannot do that.” 

He smirked.

“It is not appropriate for a man to give up so fast.” 

I did not answer, for I felt nothing but frenzied spite. A bitter, scornful smirk appeared on Hamilton’s lips.

“Though the law states that you're not a man, indeed. Someone from the gardens must do it, then…” 

“What is it that you want from me, though?” I interrupted. 

“Pardon?”

“You insulted me just because I could not lift up the box, Sir,” I uttered with an effort. “If that’s how it is, why don’t you do it yourself, to show me how it’s done?”

At the very moment, I was struck by the strangeness of my own frankness, though I had kept up all the preceding conversations with gloomy repulsion. Hamilton lifted his head, looked at me and laughed dryly. As if I had made a bad joke. This horrible answer sent a cold chill through me. 

“Go, John. I shall call somebody.”

“I am not going anywhere until you lift up the box.” 

“I will not even bother to try.” 

I was staring at him for a time, silent. Suddenly, I felt a passionate desire to do something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous. Perhaps, If I had not said that, my life would turn out to be much different:

_“Then you are no man yourself.”_

His face changed. I stood, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in my own insolence. _“Since I’m a serf to him and all too insignificant in his eyes, there is no point in him being offended at my rudeness...”_

Hamilton broke into a nervous laugh. I drew back, more amazed than scared, for it happened out of nowhere.

“You… Ungrateful fool,” he cried suddenly and unnaturally, “No man, no man… And what right have you, indeed, to insult me?” 

“I did not insult you…”

“No, you did. Why would I shower benefits on a man who... curses them? What is wrong with you? You… Why, you shall crawl on your knees, that’s how it shall be arranged. No man…"

Such dramatic change in his mood alarmed me. 

“Can’t you see that I don’t want your benevolence?” I snapped. “I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God’s sake…”

“Come. Come, right now.” 

Hamilton grabbed my wrist and dragged me with him. I did not struggle. 

We went upstairs, and he coaxed me into the dressing room. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, awfully anxious now. 

“I have clothes for you,” Hamilton muttered hurriedly, and in a whisper. “Your new clothes.” 

He walked to one of the racks, ripped a dress from it and handed it to me. My eyes opened wide.

“You must be out of your mind...” 

“Well, don’t you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now?”

“I—”

“You are not capable of being a butler. Therefore, If you cannot behave properly, you are to become a maid. In my house, maids wear dresses. 

“But I am a man…” 

“No, John, you are no man. You are a serf.”

“Is this a joke?” I was furious. “It was base of me to say that, yes! But still, Is cross-dressing a common thing here?”

“Cross-dressing?” Hamilton laughed. “Funny. Weren’t you the activist in a group of men who preferred to dress as women?” 

I rolled my eyes.

“I have never been an activist; I was just defending my convictions. The difference is that I do not contend that ordinary people are bound to wear fuckin’ dresses. Am I a lousy _raccrocheuse_ to you?” 

Hamilton winced. 

“Disgusting. Though you are not attractive enough to be a _raccrocheuse._ ”

I paused, hardly able to breathe. 

“I would rather work naked…”

“Work then. I am pretty sure you will not, though."

We were both silent.

“Just as I thought.” 

Hamilton pointed at a polished partition in the corner of the room.

“Go.” 

Reluctantly, I went behind the partition and changed. The dress —cotton and black— stretched tightly over my rather wide shoulders. However, I was still scrawny enough to fit in a female outfit — with long sleeves, a full skirt and an apron tied around the waist. The dress was accompanied by white stockings and a scarlet hair-tie. I pulled on the stockings and shrudded: my legs, covered in dark hairs, did not look feminine at all. The outfit was ridiculous, it fit me with no proportion, making me look either like an unattractive lady or a transvestite. A sudden frustration had almost caught me in tears. 

I came out from behind the partition. Hamilton raised his eyebrows. There was an expression of aversion in his look, even a malignant enjoyment of my shame. I was silent. 

“I shall not condone insults, John,” said he. “A reckless, oblivious creature like yourself will not even deign to touch male clothing, until it learns to follow my word.”

I gritted my teeth. 

“Rejoice,” he continued with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado. “You will not have to carry boxes, answer the phone or welcome guests. If you desire to wax floors and clean bathrooms… So be it. Perhaps the second maid might be even more useful than a butler.”

I stood, clenching my fists, vexed at my own words. 

“I am not a woman. Dresses are only for women…”

“Well, if we ignore the legs… You sure do look like the cheapest of _raccrocheuses.”_

A giddiness came over me.

“You… Motherfucker…”

I gave him a hateful look and stormed out of the room.

  
  


***

MY DEN was a tiny cupboard of a room about four paces in length. Such atmosphere heated up the feeling of anxious, sharp turmoil which grew in my chest. I had raged like an imbecile, rushed about like a man in a fever, without seeing anything before my eyes. Strangely enough, something also seemed to make me hesitate, and set me to embrace the feeling of deep resentment. My thoughts strayed aimlessly… I found it hard to fix my mind on anything at that moment. I longed to forget myself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life anew. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in my brain, but I could not catch at one, I could not rest on one, in spite of all my efforts. 

_“That’s the worst of all, a stupid skirt! They will notice me a mile off, it will be remembered… They’ll beat me!”_ I mused, pacing up and down in my little room as in fever. If there happened to be an unsophisticated observer in the room, and if such an observer would be brave enough to inquire about my feelings, that’s how I would answer: I felt as though someone had made me wear wide pantaloons with a single pant leg. 

My senses were peculiarly keen, and the very rustle of the dress was more than I could stand at last. I stopped, lifted up the skirt above my knee and stared at my legs. _“How am I supposed to sit?”_ I thought in despair. _“Any man has a habit of spreading one’s knees. And who would go against nature? Therefore, anyone could easily look underneath my skirt, and I would not say anything… I would not even notice!"_

I was almost delirious: now it seemed to me that my legs, covered with tight stockings, actually looked feminine. If I had any strength left in me, I would raise my hands to Heaven, maybe even weep without restraint like a little child. In the morning I thought that someone else was looking at me from the mirror, that it was some sort of doppelgänger, a foreign essence. Now, I became a doppelgänger myself. This body did not belong to me. 

The restless hesitation ended when I heard floorboards creak. I turned around. The door opened, and I saw the master of the house. Obviously, he already knew why he came, and now looked straight at me, preparing to say something. I felt hopeful for an instant: _“Perhaps he shows mercy, asks me to change, maybe even apologizes for such impertinence…”_

“You still have the same intentions?” I asked with ill-disguised contempt.

“Which intentions?” he pretended as if he did not understand me. I compressed my lips.

“Do you actually want me to dress as a woman? 

“As a maid,” corrected he. “Yes. You are not worthy to be a butler” 

“Why bring in the question of worth? You seem to want to torture people! You humiliate me from a mere offense of yours…”

“You are a serf, John,” he interrupted, “ _A serf is not to speak against the will of its master.“_

“That’s all bullshit! And I can’t stand this _‘Serf Theory_ ’ of yours. Yes, I allow myself to say anything and sometimes ask very frank questions. But I am your serf, one is not ashamed with serfs, and a serf cannot give offense. According to your own theory, I am not a human being.” 

“So you admit it?” 

And a certain self-satisfaction shone in his face. I clenched my fists.

“I speak of it as of a fact that does not depend on me at all. There is no point in taking offense. And why be offended? Tell me, have I ever insulted you?” 

“You called me a woman.”

I almost choked.

“I— When? When did I say that?” I cried. “I would remember my own words for sure. There was no such word as ‘woman’ spoken.

“Which word did you use then?”

He looked down upon me with his empty black eyes. 

“I said that you are no man. For you didn’t lift up the box.” 

“Here!” exclaimed he, as if I have only proven his thesis. “If I am not a man, then I am a woman. Which means you are a woman, too.” 

I rolled my eyes. 

“Gather what you like. I already told you: If you believe in the Theory and if you don’t think of me as a human being, there is no reason for you to rage at my words. 

“You can’t stand the Serf theory, and yet you hide behind one,” Hamilton crossed his arms. “Your father would be disappointed. Though, I believe he is disappointed already…”

I shuddered as if I had received a strong electric shock.

«Do not bring my father into this.”

«Why so? Not any father would forgive one’s son for such betrayal. Moreover, he saved your life... In a manner. Upon my honor, I didn't even mention your secret predilections; if he was telling the truth, of course.”

I was flustered. _“He knows… Even about that, he knows!”_ flashed through my mind. The vivid image of father's brow set in that ever-present disappointment appeared before my eyes, and a feeling of immense shame came over me. After two years, I remember the day of my trial only as an endless drill of photographers and newspaper men. I remember how father rose in the middle of the session, making a bold statement. I was so stunned that I almost started screaming. It seemed to me as if a rain of glowing ashes was being poured down upon me. Condemning me to feelings of unbearable shame, father tried to prolong my life; that’s why I hated him. 

“Enough,” I snapped. “You’d better say straight out why you came. To embarrass me? Why, I am already embarrassed.” 

“Nor at all,” Hamilton shook his head. “I simply want to have another word or two with you.”

“Which word?”

This pompous tone of conversation was beyond my power of endurance. Hamilton scratched the back of his head. 

“You must know, except for me there are only women living in this house. And, suppose your father’s words were a smart trick… Don’t you think that such neighbourship is not to be relied upon?”

I did not immediately understand what he meant. 

“I would never… Ever… if that’s what you mean,” mumbled I. 

Hamilton shrugged.

“Who knows, John. Vella is quite pretty. She may be colored, but…"

“Don’t you start with that!” I flared up. “God, she is no older than sixteen! Who do you think I am?”

I must have looked at him with a strange expression, or maybe said something special, because suddenly an unclear thought from before flashed in his eyes. 

“How old are you?” asked he. 

“Going on twenty-one.” 

Hamilton looked surprised. 

“I thought you were fifteen. Too scrawny.” 

Observing unmistakable mockery in his voice, I was going to answer, but it was too late: 

“Anyhow, I would like to remind you: men are to live outside, in the barrack.”

I turned cold and arranged my dress mechanically. 

“No way,” I mumbled. “They’ll kill me!” 

In prison I lived as it were with downcast eyes, and yet could not ignore a forewarned, hostile attitude towards myself. People like me were always treated with a nonsensical cruelty. Spending days on end in a confined cell, I only lived on the hope of letters from my father. I expected an apology. I do not know if he felt guilty for what he said in court. Perhaps he suspected that there was something terrible in his son’s fate and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still more awful. I could not forgive him for that.

“You are a madman,” I flew into a fury. “You want me—a man dressed as a woman—to sleep among former criminals? Surely you must understand that they will kill me! Not because I run my mouth, but just so. You could simply send me back…”

“So I spent five hundred dollars on you, and now I am supposed to send you back?”

Hamilton shook his head. 

“Give me proper clothing. Didn’t I tell you plainly enough that you are torturing me…”

“Shut your mouth, John,” Hamilton interrupted. “Shut your mouth, before I get angry.” 

At that moment, I feel quite sure, my face was crossed by such a burning, twitching despair, that anyone, whether it be my father, or even someone like Thomas Jefferson, would show mercy.

Hamilton, however, did not even flinch. I had already noticed a peculiar feature of his: even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing.

Then a strange idea entered my head; that, perhaps, I could just come to Hamilton and use a different method of persuasion…

“Don’t you dare,” warned he, as if predicting my actions. Perhaps he noticed a special determination in my gaze. “Enough arguing. You better cool your ardour and go to the barrack.” 

By that moment, I had already lost all hope.

“And zip the dress, please. I shall be waiting for you.”

With that, he left.

_“I have to escape.”_

***

I WAS following the pathway which surrounded the house. The weather that day was still summer-like, and yet it was rather chilly outside. My skirt blew in the wind, and the cold sun shone straight in my eyes. The daylight made me writhe with irritation, for I had already gotten used to constant darkness. 

_“Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but where? And how? Suppose I’ll steal money from him. Then I’ll take his car, ride… But what about the keys? What if he keeps them with him? Doesn’t matter. Better escape altogether... far away... to Mexico, and forget about him! What else shall I take? Clothes? Documents? He is crazy after all, I see it in his eyes. He won’t even notice. Only if I could cross the border! I’ve been there, on the border… Perhaps there's even more soldiers, now…”_

“Gee..”

I shuddered and looked back. A tall man was staring at me from behind the corner of the house. His eyes —big and watery— were almost like a sheep’s. Upon noticing the stranger, I, of course, was terribly alarmed. 

“Well, I am…”

I turned around and wanted to run away. 

“Why in such haste?”

The man went up to me with his wide, rushed step. I froze in the middle of the yard. 

“Don’t beat me, Sir... I shall explain everything... Je suis habillé parce car j'ai été trompé, monsieur…” I mumbled as if in fever. 

The serf stood further off, looking at me curiously.

“Are you a frenchman or something? ‘Cause I don’t know a word of French. You, Gauls, are weird! Do your men actually agree to dress as women from solidarity?"

“I am not a frenchman, S-sir."

“Why wearing a dress, then? Or you're a woman?” 

“No, no, Sir. You see, there was an accident…”

Here I related, in the shortest and most abrupt manner so that certain words could hardly be understood, everything that happened: about the delivery man, the boxes and our argument. The serf listened carefully, nodding at times. When I finished my story, he waved his hand.

“Eh, we know all about him: strange man! It’s hard to speak of anything before him, for he gets irritated instantly. I bet he’ll forget about everything in a couple of days.”

“Hopefully.” 

The serf bent over and whispered confidentially: 

“He’s ill, they say.” 

“Ill? Ill with what?” 

“Why, It’s clear,” he paused for effect. “He’s ill with snobbery!” 

..And burst out laughing.

Despite the familiar expressions, which held ever more familiarity than needed, the serf had created a certain redoubtable impression on me; his thickish, hardening body developed naturally through, I assume, hard labour. I have seen such men in prison, and, needless to say, my meetings with those men never ended well. 

The serf brushed my shoulder reassuringly. 

“I’m Lee. There's a trail down there between them two sheds. Just follow it. Me and the guys are workin’ ‘till noon — we shall come back by then. 

“Thank you.” 

We parted. _“So everything might turn out well and decently,”_ I thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief.

The barrack was a tiny concrete shed, and it was so low-pitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its yellowish-green walls and the furniture was in keeping with the room. There were six wooden bunks, a painted table in the corner on which lay a few newspapers; a big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; _“Where did the newspapers come from?”_ I thought, surprised. _“This pre-established theory—which everyone follows slavishly— exists for a reason… We, the inhumans, are not allowed to read. And yet, the newspapers are right here...”_

Once, I remember, my cellmate tried to steal the Bible. The warden caught him at this felony and gave him a sound beating.

“You're not a human being. You grew from the dirt from between the fingernails. That's what you are!” raged he. “How dare you touch The Book, you, pig…” 

I have not seen my cellmate since then. 

The copies were all new: a newspaper on top of the stack was dated 15 September. In spite of the momentary desire, a risky and illegal desire, to feel for information of any sort, I decided not to pay attention to the newspapers. 

Right there, near the barrack, a bathhouse has been built adjoining it. Without any hesitation, I took of the hateful dress and went there. I desired to wash off the shame, to set free from a terrible burden of my slavery. I knew, however, that nothing would change unless I wipe out the disgrace with blood. But in any case I could not remain a dirty sloven; I washed my hair, my neck and especially my face. When it came to the question whether to shave my legs or not (there were capital razors that had been left by someone on the sink), the question was angrily answered in the negative. _“Let it stay as it is. What if they think that I shaved on purpose to look like a woman...? They certainly would think so!”_

By the moment of my return, other serfs had already come back from the gardens. On the bunks, opposite one another, sat five men — all of a remarkable physique and badly dressed. Not that I was afraid of standing up for myself. I was by no means that sort of a man. But still I could not see the glowing light in their eyes without alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by a conversation with one of them, which prevented me from trying to run away. I realized, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now.

The silence did not last for long: one of the serfs burst out laughing. 

“But can that be true?” cried the man hoarsely. “Jesus, Hamilton must be crazy!” 

“That’s what I told you!” the familiar serf, Lee, went on. “Flaunts in a skirt, poor thing!” 

After the sudden explosion of laughter I became helpless with confusion. It must have been that the details of our argument were now familiar to everyone. But it also must be admitted that such a set of circumstances almost delighted me: _“So they will not beat me...”_

I mechanically arranged my dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably, eventually shifting to the exit. Noticing that I was nearly dead with shame, one of the serfs —the bearded one— shushed the others.

“Stop scarin’ the boy,” he looked at me and pointed towards the spare bunk, “Come, sit, sit.” 

I went to the corner of the room and sat down. The serfs forgot about me all of a sudden.

“You know what?” began Lee. “His Excellency is having guests today.” 

“Why do you think so, huh?” 

Lee tapped his forehead.

“Have you seen the way he’s dressed? The other day it would be a miracle if he wore a fresh shirt…” 

“Indeed,” assented the younger-looking serf. “I barely recognized him this morning: jacket starched, hair gathered, shoes polished! It’s clear enough: the man is trying to make an impression. 

Meanwhile,I began listening to them with marked curiosity. There certainly was something peculiar in Hamilton's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the intention of “making an impression.”

" _So, I haven't imagined it,"_ I thought. _"He is dressed as if for a special occasion. But why?"_

“Only if there was anyone to impress,” the bearded serf chuckled. “Ain’t nobody has arrived today. What, you think he’s showin’ off in front of the maids?”

“Someone will prob’ly arrive soon. He never wore anything like that before… Perhaps there will be ladies among the guests.”

A weird conjecture begun to grow strong in me, but I ignored it. The serfs were now talking about the weather. I was silent and rather awkward: I wanted to make conversation, but did not know how. 

“By the way,” the bearded serf turned to Lee. ‘The newspaper is arriving today, correct?” 

“Yes, today,” lee nodded. “But only God knows when it’ll fall into our hands. 

“Oh, pity. Can’t wait to read what happened to that…”

At last I couldn’t help myself:

“Pardon me, where did you get the newspapers?”

One and all looked at me instantly. I felt uneasy, even frightened at their searching eyes. 

“Hamilton doesn’t keep old newspapers,” answered one of the serfs. “He throws ‘em away. We find ‘em in garbage.” 

“Serfs are allowed to read?” 

“No. But how can you live without knowing what’s happening in the world?” answered Lee.

“What if he catches you?” 

“Who? Hamilton? So be it: he never punished us for that. And indeed… He never punishes anyone at all. I tell you, he’s a strange man. You, my friend, must have infuriated him…”

“I don’t like him.” I mumbled. 

“What’s the matter with you?... What are you upset about? What if he wanted to make your acquaintance, and you spat him in the face? He is a capital fellow, my friend, a benefactor! In his own way, of course.” 

“Rather!” assented the bearded man. “He doesn’t like to scold us, and he only does it out of pity. Good God, he doesn’t even beat anyone…” 

“I'd rather he’d beat me,” I interrupted. “It is true that it takes time and care to get to know a man, but there is no mistake about Hamilton. A benefactor, no doubt! Only a monster or a madman could own and sell living souls.”

“You speak against the Theory?” 

I nodded. 

“You see, my friend,” Lee did not take his glittering eyes off me. “Mr. Hamilton saved our lives; all because of the Theory. Any man would choose serfdom rather than meet the gallows…“

“You keep on like that because you are afraid to die,” I interrupted with heat. “I had better hang myself then take part in the revolting convention of the Theory.”

I gazed round at the people in the room.

“How can we reconcile to our spirited assertions of the Rights of Mankind, and yet live with the galling object of serfdom? All these sentences to servitude reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is continually on the increase. Another criminal always comes to take the place of ‘the saved one’, and often two of them. I am persuaded of the fatuity of this system. Also, let us not forget about the violation of human rights…”

For one second, everyone was strangely embarrassed. The silence continued for some few moments.

“You are an abolitionist, aren’t you?” asked Lee. 

I turned cold. 

“No. And yet I cannot stand the Serf Theory." 

For an instant a serious and careworn look came into his face.

“Strange…” he mused, “You look familiar, I swear I have seen you before… What’s your name?”

_“They know… Of course they know!”_

I swallowed and felt clearly, with all the intensity of sensation, a threat.

A decision was made immediately. 

“Henry. My name is Henry.”

***

THE WOMEN were taken aback by my outfit. When I entered the kitchen, they stared at me silently for about ten seconds. Then Theodosia snapped and went off into her hysterical giggle. Vella covered her mouth with her hand. I answered their questions in a terrible confusion, blushing from embarrassment.

When I finished my explanation, Vella began telling me where to clean, how to clean, when to wake up and where I was forbidden to go. I felt it almost pleasant to listen to her from the first moment, for her voice was filled with pity in which there was no trace of aversion.

“That’s very bad,” said she. “For, though Mr. Hamilton is full of generous feelings, he is irritable and short-tempered… But so is every laird."

“I already know.” 

We went to the supply closet. 

“Brushes, broomsticks, soap, buckets… You are in charge of the upstairs, I suppose. Do you know how to wax floors?” 

“Of course I do,” I smirked. “How could anyone not be able to?” 

“Everything is possible.” 

There was a moment of silence; Vella turned around and gazed up at me with her big black eyes. 

“Please, do not be angry at him,” she whispered. “His Excellency is not very friendly, but he is kind. The Lord sent us a generous owner… Everything shall be fine."

“Why are you so certain, Miss?” I replied, also in a whisper. 

Vella shook her head.

“I simply know.”

Then she added, after a brief pause: 

“The dress does not make you any less of a man after all.” 

I smiled bitterly. My heart sank at once, then ached, and, quite suddenly, calmed down. It was the first time when I discovered the true kindness of this quiet, misguided soul. 


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pain. This translation is pain.

THREATENING storm-clouds came over the sky about four o’clock, and instantly it became dark and stifling in the mansion. It is true, perhaps, that I should have set to work already. But I have suddenly become so wretched that I could not make myself useful, and instead found a fascinating thing to do: I was lounging about the house, opening curtains in the windows. _“The electricity is always recommended for economizing,”_ decided I. Before the arrest I enjoyed doing housework simply because I did not care to comply with the requests of my father, which I considered unjust. I had been brought up “in a genteel, almost aristocratic family” and had not been meant for sweeping floors and washing rags. And even though it is not appropriate for a man to clean and cook (at least that’s what my mother always said) labor for me has always been the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which I could not myself have defined sometimes. However, for a year past I had been so harassed with constant work that now I could not even look at a broom without feeling disgust.

I went down the stairs and looked about me. The dim light shone through the curtains melancholically and almost mysteriously; there was a dreadful stillness… I went to the window, opened it, and, leaning from a large central bay, stared meditatively into the distance. It was drizzling. Low, ragged, dingy clouds moved rapidly across the cold sky. Somewhere far away, behind the gloomy veil of fog and rain, all the lights were already going on in New-York.

 _“There is life, real life it is!”_ I mused. _“Not here: there is no life in a suburb. It weaves among the electric signboards, wanders through cabaret and underground drinking rooms, and then excited with triumph glides on through the seachange of faces and jazz notes under the constantly changing light of the city. Only if I could run away! Work in a newspaper, find a house— nothing expensive, a bungalow at eighty a month— Live! Mayn’t I have at least that?”_

I stood motionless in front of the window, listening to the wind. While the rain continued it sounded like the murmur of a million voices, rising and swelling a little, now and then, with gusts of emotion; like a reminder of gay, exciting things that happened a while since. These voices held me most with their fluctuating, feverish warmth. And I Imagined that I, too, was hurrying toward gayety and freedom. 

At that very moment the wind lashed furiously into the living room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like scarlet flags. It was time to go. I closed the window, adjusted the curtains, arranged my apron and went upstairs. There it was even darker. Hamilton’s house had never seemed so enormous to me; once I even tumbled upon the keys of a ghostly piano.

As I passed the master office, I heard something creak. Then there was a momentary sonorous clang like the ringing of a tin bell, and all was still again. I was going to go inside and ask about the weird sounds, but decided against it. I shrugged it off and went on.

The only room that I had not yet visited was the one closest to the stairs. I opened the door and went in. First I thought it was some sort of storeroom: the furniture was of different sorts, everything was in disorder, dusty and filthy, picked up here and there, and all utterly worthless. There were two card-tables, a chest of drawers made of elder, a big deal table that must have come from the kitchen, chairs and a sofa with trellis-work back. The filthy wall-paper hung in tatters from the walls. The room was musty, as though it hadn’t been aired for many days, and no wonder: there weren’t any windows. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing interesting, and yet, just in time, a particular detail caught my attention. In the corner between the sofa and the little cupboard something like a curtain hung on the wall. _“Why is that curtain here?”_ I went up to it quietly and felt that there was something hiding behind it.

I pushed it aside and saw a cradle. A small, baby cradle. There wasn’t anything special about it, but it can hardly have been the whole reason for my bewilderment. 

Suddenly the sound of rapid footsteps was heard in the corridor. I stood still for a moment, listening carefully. But all was quiet, so it must have been my fancy.

 _“Hamilton is older than me, obviously,”_ I mused. _“So he has children? Where are they? And where is his wife? For if there is a child, then, of course, there must be a mother...”_

Long ago, just at the time when the first rumors of the mysterious lawyer were in the air (back then I have not yet turned seventeen, for what I remember), stories of the most varied kind were going about the country. Perhaps I had heard something about him: it was a man of the highest connections, and very closely associated with the business of my father. Though I believe he was by no means of exalted origin, yet it happened that he became a personal financier of Thomas Jefferson — the author of the infamous ‘Serf Theory’. When Hamilton positively asserted the absolute truth of the newly formed rumors, he became a national figure in a way — one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence before the age of thirty that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. The facts were generally more or less well known, but it was evident that in addition to the facts there were certain ideas accompanying them, and what’s more, a great number. Once I even heard a speculation that Hamilton was, in fact, a cross-dressed woman. 

In other words, I knew little to nothing about my owner, and the idea of him having a family had made a peculiar impression on me. 

Suddenly the voice came from the first floor:

“John!” 

“Won’t give me a moment’s peace,” muttered I. “Hell, when did he manage to go down…”

I left the room, closed the door and slipped downstairs. Hamilton stood there, in the middle of the living room, and wore an expression of such intense displeasure that it seemed like he swallowed a lemon. 

“Who asked you to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Why did you open up the curtains?”

“Pardon me,” I mumbled in confusion. “But I could break my neck in such darkness…”

“And for what do I have electricity here, then?”

“I thought electricity is to be economized.” 

Hamilton shook his head, went towards the window and drew the curtains.

“Turn it on. The daylight is too bright, I get headaches from it.” 

I wanted to inquire about the difference between the electric and natural light, but decided not to. _“What is it, shattered nerves?”_ I thought, turning on the lights. _“What kind of man lives in a constant darkness?”_

“Why, do you burn in the sun or something?” 

Hamilton responded with a dry–that is, irritated–gaze. 

“It is very possible.”

“Please don’t think it too familiar,” I began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases I was about to utter. “But once I happened to read a certain book… And you remind me of the main character.” 

“Which book?” inquired he, evidently with no interest. 

“I do not remember the exact name, but it was about ghouls… that is, vampires. Those live in darkness, for they are very afraid of the daylight.” 

Hamilton seemed positively offended — which was reflected in the expression of his physiognomy. 

“You better not run your mouth,” hissed he. “You insult me for the mere pleasure of insulting.” 

“Insulting?” I shook my head. “I did not intend to insult you, Sir. You do not look like a vampire at all; the vampires have smaller noses. Besides, the main character is not a vampire.” 

By God, I don’t know whether he was good-looking or not, but I liked looking at him when he got angry before me like that. It was because I felt insulted and aggrieved, and desired to vindicate myself by at least showing off my intelligence; truthfully, it was said more to wound him than anything else… (though his nose was actually quite large and conspicuously aquiline. “A regular Roman nose,” he used to say, “with my goiter I've quite the countenance of an ancient Roman patrician.”) 

“Don’t forget with whom you are talking.” answered Hamilton. “I can punish you.” 

I shrugged. 

“Hm, you can, indeed. But how? Will you make me wear a cap? What harm can it do for me? For I am not afraid of beating; I went through a lot in prison. And what then, Mr. Hamilton?”

Hamilton stood silently, puckering up his lips. There was something almost frenzied in his eyes, as if he was desperately trying to find an appropriate answer. 

“I can kill you, do you know that? Not because I’ve gotten angry or become offended, but–just so, simply kill you, because I have the right to do so…”

I felt as if a hand was griping at my heart within my breast, still I tried to keep my features as indifferent as possible.

 _“Good,”_ I thought, turning cold. _“This is beyond the cat playing with a mouse, like this morning. It is a real threat.”_

He kept looking at me with some sort of haughty indifference, as if not understanding that he had literally threatened me with murder.

“I know. Well, if such thought happens to cross your mind, do it quickly. So it doesn’t hurt.” 

“I shall try my best.” 

Obviously, none of this talk was productive. _“He can’t be showing off his power with no motive… He must have another object. To scare me!”_

There was a stupid silence that was not broken for fully ten seconds. Then in a moment his face became transfigured; he grew deadly white, his hands trembled. Hamilton pulled a cigar out of his pocket and bit off the end of it. He did not even bother to open the window; he retrieved a lighter and started smoking.

“Draw all the curtains and turn on the lights if needed,” muttered he. “The floors upstairs must be washed… everywhere, except for the room near the stairs; don’t go in there.” 

I nodded. I was smart enough not to tell that I had been there already.

“And don’t you dare disturb me while I am working.” 

He put his hands in his pockets and made haste to turn away, as if my presence burdened him. So I left him standing there alone — surrounded with the clouds of tobacco.

***

THE EVENING was approaching. I was scrubbing and cleaning and washing the floors, and carried out this occupation with such zeal, that dampness soon set upstairs and my fingers began to hurt. It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to me in my present state of mind this was positively agreeable. Hundreds of thoughts were swarming in my brain, and all of them seemed absurd to me. 

It was dark outside when Vella called me for dinner. Theodosia fussed over the electric stove and did not pay any attention to us. “She is making dinner for His Excellency,” explained Vella. We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table with a plate of cold fried duck and a teapot full of stale tea. Before eating Vella clasped her hands together and said grace. I followed her example. 

Of course, the meal was rather to invigorate than to satiate. I took a bite from a duck leg and felt dizzy all of a sudden. I attributed my sudden weakness to the fact that I was not hungry. I put the leg aside and wiped my lips with a napkin. 

“Why aren’t you eating?” asked Vella.

“I am not really hungry…”

“But you haven’t eaten anything today! And your face is pale, too…”

“Really, I ain’t hungry. Thank you.” 

For the next ten minutes I sat quietly and from time to time let my head drop into my hands dejectedly. However, soon enough my allowance was gone, and I told her everything about the recent conversation.

Vella listened with anything but incredulity. 

“It shouldn’t surprise you,” she began, after a short pause. “For Mr. Hamilton is a man of exuberant nature, and his conversation is… peculiar, indeed. He was probably joking.”

“How can one make jokes about murder? Besides, it doesn't seem like a joke to me: the expression is put in very significantly and plainly, and there was besides a threat that he will kill me. Well, what do you think? Would you not be alarmed?

“N-no,” answered Vella, with more animation. “I saw clearly that it was too plainly expressed, and that perhaps His Excellency meant something different…”

“Excuse me, but really this is sheer despotism…”

“I am in no mood for arguing, Mr. Laurens,” interrupted Vella. “Listen, Mr. Hamilton is the kindest of souls. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Are you so completely certain?” 

“I am.” 

We were silent for a minute. Then I decided to change the topic. 

“I was going to ask you, Miss Smith… Is Mr. Hamilton married, by any chance?”

Vella gazed up in surprise. 

“No, he is not. Why are you asking?” 

“Perhaps he has children?” 

The maid frowned and looked down for a second. Her face changed. 

“He does not have children.”

And then she repeated coldly:

“Why are you asking?”

Sadly, I didn't have time to explain: Theodosia stepped back from the stove, put a plate on the table and said, intentionally loud: 

“Done.” 

On the plate there was an exquisite-looking meat that smelled strongly of truffles and paprika. I had long forgotten the taste of such dishes, and my mouth actually watered at the sight. 

Vella bounded up like a spring and grabbed the plate. 

“I shall bring it to him.” 

She left without saying another word. I remained sitting, staring at the spot where the plate used to be.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Theodosia shrugged, excused herself and left the kitchen. 

The evening flew by, and I was ordered to return to the barrack. I vowed to myself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control my overstrained nerves. Among the other serfs I kept quiet; I undressed and went to bed. It was pretty hard to fall asleep on the rigid wooden bunk though, despite my exhaustion.

***

ABOUT A WEEK had passed, and the situation had begun to grow more complicated. I may mention in passing that I suffered a great deal during that unhappy week, as I worked constantly with an iron weight of women’s clothing upon my shoulders. What weighed upon me most was the feeling of shame, though I saw no one except for other serfs and the master of the house. I was so morbidly apprehensive that I expected that everyone knew about my position already, the whole country. All the stupid rumors about John Laurens and his personality were the main reason why I called myself with a fake name. Soon I found that other serfs knew about such an individual and expressed an intense repulsion towards him, even hatred. I had no intention of being beaten to death. The serfs were waiting for Hamilton to throw away another newspaper.

I appeared calm on the outside, but my heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted me, and each time, after long musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a daring thought would come into my head. This thought preoccupied me, and yet I did not hasten to act upon it. 

A week passed and I still did not know who my owner was. No, obviously I knew his name and his status — Alexander Hamilton, a laird, a real politico and an ardent supporter of Thomas Jefferson’s Serf Theory. Everybody heard about Hamilton, for there were whispers about him from those who found little that it was necessary to talk about politics. I have been studying this man from the moment I saw him, and through special circumstances know a great many facts about him now, at the time I write. He was quite a character, and back then this eccentric behavior of his confused me. 

Hamilton was irritable, sensitive and extremely nervous. He complained about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, smoked a lot and seemed to be looking down on all of humanity. His face had a strange facility for changing with extraordinary quickness, from the most kind expression, for instance, to the most indifferent, and even angry. We did not talk much, only briefly and to the point. Each time on being actually spoken to I felt my habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for his face.

That’s why I was so surprised when on the seventh day of our acquaintance he had tried to strike a conversation with me. It was two past midday, and I was waxing floors upstairs. Suddenly, from the very bottom of the stairs came the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps. I recognized them instantly: only one person could walk at such a fast pace.

“It is not the right way to wax floors, Laurens.” 

I turned around. Hamilton stood on the steps and gazed down at me with disapproving eyes.

“And why is that?” muttered I.

“Look at your hands… At this rate, you are going to wipe a hole in the paraquet. Do not scrub it so roughly.”

“I am doing my job, Mr. Hamilton. You cannot really think that you are better at floor washing than me…” 

“Oh, believe me, I am.”

And then he added: 

“I make bold to inquire—have you been in the service?”

He stood facing me at the other end of the corridor, which was five paces away, and waited for the answer with a look of unwonted radiance on his face. “ _Is he bored or something? Why hanging on like this?”_

“No, I have not happened to.”

“Well, I have,” Hamilton sighed, as if his mind became filled with memories. “I graduated from the university in 1913, and participated in the Great War a little later.” 

“Did you kill people?” 

I could not help imagining him in uniform, with a weapon. 

"Why, yes. I was in the Ninth Machine-Gun Battalion, got my majority soon. I was relocated to the headquarters, however; as a telegraphist. Quite upsetting… But perhaps it’s for the best. If I remained on the frontline, I would probably have had my nose shot off.”

He smiled sadly at his own words. I dropped my eyes. Vague thoughts surged through my mind. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. 

“Why are you telling me this?” asked I. 

“I do not want you to die from boredom. Sometimes a small conversation is enough to raise one’s spirit. Don’t you think so?”

I decided not to answer.

“John.” 

I hummed in response.

“John!”

“What?” 

Such conduct rather wounded my vanity. I need hardly to say that I had long ago guessed this intention of his, and saw through it completely. Hamilton desired reconciliation. He, too, saw through me; that is, he clearly perceived that I could not stand him. My irritation was perhaps petty and stupid; but I did not intend to reconcile with a man who threatened me with murder not too long ago. 

“What did you do for fun before you were arrested?” 

I grabbed the washing-cloth, soaked it in water and began scrubbing the floor.

“I don’t know… I drank, rode horses, read…”

“Read? What exactly?”

“It matters not… But I quite enjoy Greek literature,” answered I, simply in order to have something to say.

Hamilton paused, as though hesitating; then nodded and asked: 

“Are you, by any chance, familiar with Oscar Wilde’s work?” 

I mused. 

“No… Why? And who is he?”

All at once there was a gleam of something unclear in his black eyes.

“Pity. You would enjoy it, I believe.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Hamilton smiled strangely.

“Never mind. Anyhow, keep going. You have done good work thus far…” 

With those words he retreated to his office. 

SOON it was time for lunch. Miss Batrow sat at the kitchen table, sorting the grits. I sat down opposite from her and drew a bowl of broth nearer to myself. The cook made a hurried bow, glancing curiously at me. Unlike Vella, Theodosia had avoided me and had scarcely had a word to say to me. She did not explain the reason.

“I see what’s happening.” said the cook, quite unexpectedly.

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

“For your information, I read the newspapers, too,” she did not look away from the grits. “Allow me to tell you that you might have treated His Excellency rather more justly.”

“Miss, I do not understand you.” 

“I'm talking about the dress. Obviously, you find a certain pleasure in dressing as a woman, and Mr. Hamilton has nothing to do with it. 

I felt a rush of indignation. 

“Pardon…”

“Really, Mr. Laurens. Lookin’ like a man on the outside, but on the inside… I just can't understand it.

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots. Vella burst into the kitchen. 

“Blessed it be the day!” exclaimed she. “Please excuse me, I looked outdoors for a minute. There must be a bird in the bushes. It’s singing away…”

I squinted at the cook. She sat as if she did not say anything at all. 

Vella sat down and glanced searchingly at her. It must have been my fancy, but I felt like there was something special in that gaze; some sort of disguised thought. I did not pay much attention to it, however. 

“I suppose it was a nightingale,” assumed I. “I heard it, too.” 

Vella gave me a radiant smile of delight.

“Yes, probably a nightingale.” 

AFTER FINISHING the cleaning, I took my stand in the middle of the corridor and looked at my hands. The red bumps covered my fingertips, and they might only too likely be the forerunners of blisters. 

I do not know what exactly drew me on: It could have been the confidence inspired by the conversation with Hamilton, or perhaps it was simple curiosity. I am positively sure, however, that the restless nature of mine was the one to blame. I was going to ask for some sort of remedy.

I went to the office door and knocked; quietly, soberly, and without impatience.

“Mr. Hamilton?” 

No answer. I knocked again.

“Mr. Hamilton, may I come in?” 

Upon noticing that the door was not locked, I opened it a tiny crack and peered inside. The room was empty. Of course! To the best of my recollection, Hamilton was always outside at that time of day, giving orders. I gave a sudden start; another thought, that I had had before, slipped back into my mind.

 _“No, it’s not right,”_ I tried to reason with myself. _“I am not to go in there. Especially when the master is absent…”  
_

I knew, I had felt beforehand, that this thought must come back, I was expecting it; besides it was not only today’s thought. The difference was that a week ago, yesterday even, it was a mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a dream at all.

 _“But why? What's inside?”_ I continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each other in my brain. _“Documents? Money, perhaps? Hamilton must be rich as hell if he can give off five hundred dollars at a time! That’s why he doesn’t let the servants in, for he is afraid to be robbed…”_

I shifted uneasily and began fumbling with the doorknob.

I had been thinking about escaping for a long time now, morbidly reckoning the chances at one moment with hope and at the next with despair. I thought there was every probability of realising my plan, and felt a rush of hope in my heart, believing that there really might be a way of escape and salvation. Hamilton had shown almost all his cards, and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (I reflected), he would have shown that, too. He had nothing, no facts but psychology, to suspect my intentions.

_“If I act quietly and sedately, without hurry, he will never know…”_

A faint and even pleasant shiver ran down my spine.

_“No, it’s too early to think of it. Am I to rob him without a plan? I must learn the details first. What if the big money shows up?”_

After some painful hesitation, I decided to risk an action: I looked about me, making sure that nobody was around, and with a sinking heart slipped into the room. The strong smell of tobacco tickled my nostrils immediately, as if I walked into some sort of wayside public-house. 

The room was lofty, carpeted with rugs, and contained somewhat heavy old-fashioned furniture. On the desk before the window stood a lamp, a typewriter, a telephone, and a humidor with two stale dry cigars inside. A big divan occupied almost the whole of one wall, and a little commode stood beside it. So soon as I began to pull open the drawers, so soon as I heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over me. I suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back.

There turned out to be various useless papers, a broken watch, a silver pin, as well as the jar with some unknown pills. On the shelf above the divan I found nothing but books. The desk drawer was also empty.

“Where is it…where is the money?” I mumbled in despair. “I cannot run away without it! He’s probably hidden it… I understand! Papers, pills… The money must be somewhere else. Never mind, I shall find it next time… I’d better leave before he returns.”

I admitted my defeat and made haste to go, but here a shock of terror awaited me such as I had not felt for a long time. 

The telephone on the table rang startlingly, out of the blue. I came to a sudden halt; it seemed to me all at once that I was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is being pursued, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one’s arms.

“Good God!” I muttered. “What’s it with me? I must fly, fly,” and I rushed into the entry. I was about to leave the room, but suddenly the footsteps were heard in the corridor; easily recognizable, exceedingly rapid steps. 

And if at that moment I had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if I had been able to realise all the difficulties of my position, it is very possible that I would have flung up everything, and would have gone to give myself up. But instead I rushed to the divan, hid behind its back and went still as death. Fear gained more and more mastery over me.

“I knew it,” I whispered in horror. “A stupid telephone! Why, a little thing like this spoils the whole plan…”

The door creaked and I heard the hurried footsteps. Someone picked up the telephone.

“Hamilton is talking.” 

I sat squatting on my heels behind the divan and waited holding my breath.

“Yes, hello. How are you doing? Me too,” Hamilton paused, listening to his interlocutor. “I am surprised that you have waited a whole week before calling me.” 

Silence continued for some few moments. 

“The newspapers are telling the truth. I have granted your wish, Thomas… Yes, I am sure. That’s him… Yes… All swarthy, big ears… What? Ah, yes, yes. Well, not really…”

_“They are talking about me… “It’s clear, quite clear!”_

I felt somewhat mortified. 

“Sometimes he is fearfully reserved; never listens to what is said to him and thinks very highly of himself. Well, what more?”

Silence.

“Smith? Do not worry, I talked to her already. She Is not going to say anything… Tomorrow? Why, do you not believe me? No, I’m just… Yes, alright. So be it… I understand.”

Hamilton chuckled.

“Et vous avez raison. Of course I will. No, but I…” Hamilton hesitated. “See you, Mr. Jefferson. Goodbye.” 

He hung up the line and muttered: 

“Suspicious motherfucker.” 

Then there was the crunch of leather chair and the click of a lighter. Something new was beginning, quite unlike the previous silence, something very strange too.

“Laurens, calm your breathing already.” 


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically Crime and Punishment but on drugs.

A COMPLETE VOID, so like a strong fever or a death-like torpor, takes possession of me every time I give myself to fear or shame. In consequence I’m inclined to reserve action, a habit that has saved me from a lot of trouble, but also made me the victim of not a few curious incidents. I have always been incurably impressionable. I wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage, and given this unwillingness I had developed a special defense mechanism: like an ostrich that hides its head in the sand, I would usually turn into a lifeless statue. This responsiveness, however, had nothing to do with cowardice. A sharp mind is quick to detect and attach itself to such quality when it appears in a regular, normal person, and so it came about that in school I was unjustly accused of being a coward. 

Once, In my younger and most sensitive years, an unpleasant incident befell me. When I was a fifteen-year-old youth, I read some sort of romantic novel, got emotional and decided to confess my love to the object of my juvenile affection. The intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them usually constitute a pointless stream of outright thoughts.The sensation produced by a blatant rejection which I received excited my nervous system in such a way that the intensity of this barren punch produced at first a dull pain which being prolonged, soon turned into a numbness over my whole body. I began suffocating and almost fainted. Since then, this feeling began to chase me. 

I hardly remember myself now, and the more time passes the worse it gets. I have been thinking a lot about my past lately, as if trying to recover something, some idea of myself perhaps. My life became confused and disordered long ago, but maybe, if I could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, I could win back what I lost… For everything that I do not manage to recall and tell you shall be forgotten forever.

***

“Laurens, calm your breathing already.” 

I sat on the floor, behind the divan, and could not believe my ears. _“How does he know? Perhaps he talks to himself? It cannot be that he heard my breathing…”_

Fear sent a chill over me and came back as a trembling in my hands and legs. With terror I sensed and instantly realized what it meant for me now to make such a mistake. The perspiration streamed from my face.

I raised my head and looked blankly about me. I could not move, despite all my efforts. _“And what am I going to say? That I was searching for money? That I did not intend to steal anything and, say, simply wanted to explore the place? But to be interrogated, to rack my brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie… No, then he will finish me off for sure. He was saying the truth, after all: he has the right to murder, especially now, when there is a reason… I am a goner, a goner!”_

”Well, why are you still sitting?” 

As if coming to my senses, I startled up. On seeing HamiltonI I felt myself grow pale and then red, my knees seemed to be giving way. A giddiness came over me again. “I shall fall down!” flashed through my mind, but Hamilton began to speak and I recovered myself at once. 

“I believe it would be right if I let you explain yourself first.” 

He was sitting in an armchair with one leg crossed over the other and, as his habit was, smoked a cigar. His eyes looked cold, and I’m sure I’m not lying—calm. I uttered a harsh, jarring laugh that frightened me.

“I had presumed and calculated,” I faltered, “that you, perhaps, by coincidence…” 

“I say, why are you standing in the doorway?” he interrupted suddenly. “If you have something to say, sit down.”

The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse. I sat down and looked at Hamilton warily. 

“Thank you… You see, my fingers are covered in blisters. Look here,” I demonstrated my hands. “And I was hoping that you, perhaps, have some sort of remedy…” 

“So you found it appropriate to sneak into my office? While I was away?” 

His countenance began to express something caustic and ironical.

“No.” quoth I. “But you have to understand…” 

“You think I am pretty dumb, do you not?’ he suggested. “Perhaps I am. You are lying to yourself, above all. C'est invraisemblable¹. You must have had another intention. Otherwise you would await me.”

I averted my eyes. 

“I swear, je vous jure², there was no intention. I would never lie about it. Look if you do not believe me. Look!” 

“I won’t bother,” Hamilton wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “ _Passons³._ Suppose you needed to relieve the pain. Suppose you are awfully stupid and decided that you have the right to do so— that is, the right to commit unpardonable audacity. So be it. But why, why would you sneak around and eavesdrop on me? Perhaps it was your intention? To eavesdrop?”

I winced, but said nothing.

“Tell me!” 

His mood changed unexpectedly, rapidly, as though the very silence was an affront to him. I was not even surprised. 

“I agree, It was foolish. I don’t know how it is that I did not wait for you,” began I. “You don’t understand; I used to think, indeed, that if I go in and then leave straight away, nothing would happen. But I was too afraid to leave… When you were there, I mean. Though, of course, I could have left… But I did not dare. That is, I would certainly leave if I could; confess about everything myself. And as for the conversation… I did not understand anything anyway.”

Hamilton sat, facing me in silence and looking incredulously at me. There was a thrill of extraordinary and unexpected feeling in my soul. Although his eyes appeared so arrogant and serene, still every time he looked at me like that I felt my stomach tighten. I'd be lying if I said that this piercing gaze did not scare me.

“Did not understand anything?” 

“Exactly. I swear, I did not intend to eavesdrop…” 

Hamilton nodded, reached out to the humidor, put the cigar out and stood up. 

“Let us go.”

“Where?” 

“ _I am being premature. He will beat me, of course he will beat me…_ ” 

I was not afraid of beating, and yet began to tremble from a painful expectation. Even my cheeks grew red, I think. Hamilton studied me with some especially close attention. It must be that my face then expressed all my senseless and absurd feelings. For a moment, I felt my confidence give way; then, loathing myself for being so weak, I startled up. 

“I know you do not believe me,” I blurted out, almost in a frenzy.

“No, why, I believe you,” he said, but as only he knew how to speak sometimes, with such contempt and sarcasm, with such arrogance, that, by God, it almost took my breath away. “Come, follow me.” 

We left the office and I went along the corridor. I hardly knew what I was doing, but tried not to show it much. I felt vexed that I had come into the office, felt annoyed by Hamilton who would not tell me anything; I could not calm my thoughts. 

_“Well, this is it!”_ I thought, following him slowly and listlessly, _“Anyway I’ll make an end, for I am so stupid… But what kind of end, however? He knows how to make threats, for sure. But to punish? No, he does not know how to punish, he only talks and speechifies away”._

We entered the dressing room. Hamilton began rummaging in the chests. One sudden irrelevant idea almost made me laugh: _“Is he actually searching for a cap? What a cross-dressing freak he is then!”_

At last I lost all control:

“But will you tell me, finally, what’s going on here?” I said. “At any rate let me know: otherwise I’ll go mad right here. Or are you ashamed to honor a serf with your candor?”

Hamilton shook his head. 

“Stop talking. You are being annoying.” 

He drew something from one of the chests and handed it to me. 

“Here, take it. I do not have any sort of remedy from blisters. But, I suppose It would be easier for you if you worked with your hands covered.” 

I shuddered in surprise. He spoke so seriously that it couldn’t possibly have been taken for a joke. He gave me an ordinary pair of gloves. I began examining them, suspecting that there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it all. Hamilton cleared his throat, as if preparing to say something, but, as I was particularly agitated, I blurted out a question stupidly and

crudely:

“That’s it?” 

Hamilton frowned: he must have expected to hear the words of gratitude. 

“Sorry, I am no pharmacist.” 

“No, It’s not what I mean... Vous me pardonnerez?”⁴

“Well, why should I punish you?” he said dryly and somehow especially nonchalantly. “It would be completely useless to me. You are punished already. And I do not want to beat you… Besides, even If i wanted to, I would not.” 

“Why?” 

“Nothing could be further from my mind. I never abuse my servants.” 

If I had cared to think a little, I would have been amazed that he could have talked to me like that after all I had done. Of course, I suspected that such kindness may have proceeded from different causes, but determined to take no notice of those oddities. Indeed, I did not expect mercy from him. 

“Thank you… For the gloves.”

I even smiled. 

Hamilton nodded. We were silent for a moment. 

“By the way,” he suddenly caught himself. “Here’s some news, before I forgot: I am having a guest tomorrow… And I would like you to wait on us during lunch. No need to be nervous, though, for you must be acquainted with him already. _Closely_ acquainted.”

Some painful and shameful sensation was born in me. My smile was gone.

“You are out of your mind…” I faltered.

Hamilton, who clearly did not expect such a response, raised his eyebrows. 

“What are you so afraid of? What’s so bad about it?” 

I stared directly into his face

“You… You…” I swallowed, went red and felt my hands and feet turn cold from fear. “Did you invite my father?” 

Hamilton eyed me for at least ten seconds, and then went off into his hysterical, high laughter. His laughter, however, soon turned to an insufferable fit of coughing. I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology.

“Of course!” cried Hamilton hoarsely. “That’s what I did! Invited him purposefully. Come and see your son, Mr. Laurens! All dolled up, with his hair braided, in a petticoat, starched one… Look how good he is at washing floors!”

My legs seemed to be giving way. Fear made me go so far as to take the most stupid joke seriously. 

Hamilton continued, without mockery: 

“That is a fun idea. But I would never do that. No important figure shall see you in a damn dress.” 

It did not make me feel any better.

“I am afraid of disgrace,” I whispered.

“What disgrace? On the contrary! Believe me, that all this will be explained tomorrow and will end right about the same time...”

“Pardon you? What! What a word! You made me dress as a woman, and now you want to humiliate me in front of other people! What have I done?” 

“If he doesn’t see you, it will be worse still.” he added rigidly. 

“How do you mean it will be worse?”

“It will be worse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mind your own business,” said Hamilton coldly. “Enough complaining. This serfdom should be a pleasure for you — I am so forgiving…”

“Well, yes, yes, to be enslaved to you is a pleasure,” I went on raving. “If there is pleasure in the ultimate degree of humiliation and insignificance! It’s all nonsense. I do not need such pleasure. You’re laughing…” 

“I’m not laughing at all,” he said with wrath. “I order you to be silent.”

I stopped, barely able to breathe. In all this conversation there was something which really did offend me.

“ _A serf is not to speak against the will of its master,_ ” quoted Hamilton. “Nothing then would be immoral, everything would be lawful. For every individual who is in involuntary servitude, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former law, and that egoism, even to cruelty, must become not only lawful to the Master but even recognized as the inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position. Any will of the Master must be executed and cannot be rejected. A serf is not a human being, hence the moral or ethical convictions are not to be applied to it.”

There was a moment’s silence. I felt like my gaze would soon burn a hole right through his shoe. 

“Do you know this by heart?” asked I. 

“The Theory was written under my watch. It would be weird if I didn’t remember at least something.” 

“So… Do you actually believe that you have the right to kill anyone who lives in this house?” 

“It appears so.” 

I shook my head, stared right into his eyes and felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak I had become.

“This Theory is the most cruel and insulting despotism which can exist on earth,” whispered I. “Although you have forgotten yourself so much as to hide behind it. If such atrocities are written in the constitution of our country… ‘tis not my country. Ubi Libertas ibi Patria.”

Hamilton was silent for a moment. Then he said, seemingly indifferent:

“Good riddance.” 

He arranged his tie and went quickly out of the room. Mechanically I followed him. Suddenly the sound of rapid footsteps was heard from the bottom of the stairs. Hamilton stood still, as though thunder-struck. 

“Leave. Now.” 

I decided not to argue. 

***

THE PREPARATIONS for the visit began the next morning. Women already knew about the guest and were in a terrible dismay. Theodosia was bustling all around the kitchen, cooking. Vella was also busy and did not talk to me… Though she became unusually quiet earlier in the evening. That night at supper she did not say a single word, and then went off to bed without bidding goodbye to anyone. 

As I dressed I examined my attire more carefully than usual. I put on fresh stockings, brushed the dress and tied my hair with a bow. I even decided to shave. The sensation was exceptionally unpleasant: I felt as though I have lost a fraction of my masculinity all of a sudden. My face, not handsome but very fresh, seemed younger than my years at all times. Now I looked like a fifteen-year-old waif— pale, with hollow cheeks and a sharp, smooth chin. In short, I regretted the change in my appearance instantly.

As the lunchtime approached, I decided to have a conversation with Theodosia. 

“Miss Batrow.” 

Batrow, as her habit was, did not pay any attention to me. 

“Miss Batrow, we have to talk.” 

The cook gave me a short glance consciously devoid of meaning.

“Look,” began I. “I understand, you must be familiar with some details of my court case. All these… small and completely indecent details. Or, to put it more correctly, one particular detail. Right?” 

Silence.

“I only meant to say… About my father's words. There was an object. You see, he tried to save my life, and so came up with a peculiar lie. I myself was surprised: he slandered me! All those rumors about my health, they…”

“Mr. Laurens,” Theodosia interrupted. “I'II tell you straight: I despise you. And, besides, it’s very unrealistic.” 

“Why? It’s realistic, very much so indeed. Miss Batrow, listen…”

“Your father could have called you anything: a madman, a leper, a lunatic… And yet he came up with such an unusual vulgarity. Why would one make something like that up? Also, you didn’t object.”

“Nobody let me speak.” 

“A milksop’s talk. One can behave with dignity in any situation.”

“Suppose that. But, excuse me, what’s so vulgar about it?” 

She looked at me coldly and with positive hostility.

“He said that you’re a sodomite, Mr. Laurens. Ain’t that vulgar?”

I tried not to wince upon hearing these words, but do what I could, it was impossible to keep my features quite motionless. I had a most vivid hallucination; a hundred fingers were pointing at me; I saw a sneer upon the face of every man that looked at me. A voice, loud enough for everyone to hear, was whispering, 'The sodomite!' 

“You are ill.”

The hallucination ended. I gazed up.

“Be that as you will. But dozens, hundreds of madmen are walking about in freedom, and your ignorance is incapable of distinguishing them from the sane. Why then do you hate me, but not them? Where's the logic of it?"

“So you’re not denying anything?” 

“I do deny it. But assuming, of course, it was actually…”

"Logic doesn’t come in. There is neither logic nor morality in my being sane and your being ill. You go against God’s will, and so you disgust me,” Theodosia brought out in a hollow voice. “That’s it.”

I was about to say something else, but Batrow made haste to leave. I was left alone with my thoughts. 

Those convictions were like a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, and untrue. Theodosia was right about one thing, however: such a word was actually spoken in court. My sentence was more merciful than could have been expected, perhaps partly because of a fake illness that father attributed to me. He somehow discovered and proved that while his son was at the university he had lived with some comrade of his, rented a room, but did not pay for accommodation. “Which means he found another way of paying the rent”, explained he. These facts (slanderous facts, I must add) made an impression in my favor, for the court saw it as an irrefutable evidence of my illness. In the end I was, in consideration of extenuating circumstances, condemned to death penalty with a possibility of becoming a serf. From that day the society branded me with an infamous name, and I loathed my father. 

As for the imputations, I not only rejected them, but decided not to pay any attention to Theodosia’s words, because they had been said in ignorance.

I slipped downstairs. Hamilton ordered a fire in the parlor, and it was rather light, despite the curtains being drawn. I sat down on the divan and closed my eyes. I longed to rest, if only for a moment. Soon the doorbell woke me, however. I started, roused myself, raised my head, and seeing the time, jumped up wide awake as though someone had pulled me off the divan. I stood up, smoothed my hair and began waiting for the master to get down. 

After half a minute the doorbell rang again, more insistently. 

_“Perhaps he didn’t hear it?”_ I thought. After waiting for some few moments I began softly and cautiously walking towards the hallway, listening every second. No footsteps were heard from the stairs. For one instant the thought floated through my mind “Shall I go back? Had I better wait a little longer?” But I made no answer and began listening at the front door, a dead silence. Hamilton was at home, of course, but didn’t hear the doorbell apparently. I suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a coat at the very door. Someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as I was doing on the inside was listening within. The bell rang for the third time. My heart was beating violently. I could stand it no longer, and put out my hand to the latch… then looked about me for the last time, pulled myself together and opened the door.

In the door stood a tall man, taller than me by a head or so. He was dressed exquisitely, in a black suit with a magenta tie. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the porch every now and then. His face was broad, rather pleasant, with high cheekbones. Even his hair, sticking out in different directions and frizzy, did not give him a stupid appearance, as frizzy hair usually does. He was smiling. Upon seeing his smile I, of course, went red. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. I recognized this man instantly. One would have thought that he must be a paragon of beauty, yet at the same time there seemed something repellent about him. 

It was Thomas Jefferson — a well-known figure, an honorary member of the Republican party and Hamilton’s ally. The author of the Theory. 

For a moment he seemed to be evaluating the situation, and then, as though with an irresistible choice in my favor, concentrated on me. The smile vanished from his face. His eyes–a real cat’s, shone with wonder and confusion. If I were a guest, and if the door before me was opened by a man dressed as a maid, I would be surprised, too. 

Here I caught myself, bowed slightly and took a step aside. The guest stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, entered the hallway, still keeping his eyes on me, took off his hat and handed me his coat. He leaned his hands on his cane. I hung up the coat and froze in the 

corner, not knowing what to do. I did not have the right to talk to him. 

“Laurens?”

_“He recognized me. Of course.”_

I blushed desperately, but nodded. I saw some sort of pity in his eyes; it must have been my fancy, though. Suddenly Jefferson smiled and opened his mouth to say something. 

Then rushed footsteps were heard in the corridor — quite unexpectedly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear the bell.” 

Hamilton burst into the hallway. He looked perturbed, to say the least. Jefferson’s face changed; he ceased smiling and came up to Hamilton, managing to shove me aside on the way.

“Mr. Hamilton!” the guest put out his broad, flat hand. “I’m glad to see you, sir…”

“Mr. Jefferson,” Hamilton responded to the handshake. “How was your trip?” 

There was tension in his voice, as if the question was asked out of formal necessity rather than interest. 

“It was quite good. Though this time I happened to come across a chatty taxi driver.” 

Jefferson, on the contrary, spoke without effort.

“Understandable,” Hamilton nodded, smiling faintly. “In New-York most of the taxi drivers are like this. Well, go to the parlor… I shall join you soon.” 

Jefferson nodded and went out of the room. 

I waited until the footsteps in the corridor had faded, then raised my head and spoke first:

“Is this a joke?”

“Quiet,” hissed Hamilton.

“You invited Thomas Jefferson,” I persisted. “Do you want me to die from shame? Good god…” 

“Listen here,” interrupted he. “Please, be decent. It is a very, very important person.” 

“You promised that no important figure would see me wearing this apparel! Are you demented or something?”

My bitterness grew more and more intense, and if I had the opportunity at the moment, I might have murdered him.

"Is that any way to speak to me?" he flew into a fury. 

“I shall talk to you as I please.” 

I was trembling all over, as though I was in a fit. A dull animal rage boiled within me, and I did not know how to escape from it. Hamilton frowned and said to me, his lips trembling with anger:

“It’s not about me. You know who he is. There will be twice the hell to pay as opposed to misbehaving now. Are we understood?” 

I clenched my wrists, glaring at the parquet.

Jefferson was indeed a man who bore the weight of a great name. He was famous not only for a brilliant mind, but also for an exceptional cruelty in treating serfs. His unsparing fierceness seemed exaggerated even to the most utter planters. Rumor had it that his cruelty surpassed any description: he cut off fingers, poked out the eyes, scourged, branded and did not mind killing the unwanted ones. He himself never confirmed those rumors, but didn't refute them either. Perhaps there was some truth in them. I shivered. 

“Understood.” 

It was one o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at the clock and found it was two. The guest waited for us in the parlor; he sat on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap. Hamilton fell back on the divan across from him. 

“How are you, Mr. Hamilton?” Jefferson inquired.

‘I’m sick,’ said Hamilton. “I have been sick all day.”

“What’s the matter? You sounded well enough on the phone.” 

Hamilton smirked. 

“You already know, do you not?” 

“True.” 

There was a moment of weird silence. It seemed to me that they didn’t know what to talk about. Hamilton kept slapping himself nervously on the knee of his trousers. Jefferson’s eyes looked dreamy and concentrated, not altogether tranquil. 

“You wanted to discuss something, for what I remember?” 

“Yes, exactly. Here’s the deal..:”

It is very odd, but I cannot recollect their conversation. They were talking about the finances, or something of the sort. Hamilton was quite unlike himself. He seemed to be in a fearful hurry all the time, entirely from head to foot absorbed by something; some vital ideas which he wanted to formulate and expound. He talked a great deal and fearfully fast, chewing on his cigar, gesticulating and explaining with strained and painful effort. I could make nothing of it. Jefferson was nodding, changing his position in a chair at times. 

“Ah, It’s so hot out here,” he complained at some point.

“It’s because we are sitting by the fire.” explained Hamilton. 

“You go right on conserving heat. I read somewhere that the sun is getting hotter every year. Hey there, serf!” 

I shuddered and gazed up. 

“Make us a cold drink,” he ordered loudly. 

I stared at him in confusion. Perhaps upon noticing my perplexity, Hamilton decided to give me a hint: 

“Yes, I was just about to offer you a drink. John,” he turned to me. “Please, bring in a bottle of chardonnay… The red one.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

_“So even Hamilton is afraid of him.”_ I mused, scurrying off to the kitchen. _“See how nervous he is! Although, if I were him, I would be nervous as well. Such a man…”_

About six years ago, perhaps even earlier, a wave of bold protests overflowed the country. It began with the abolitionist doctrine — a government, in which the ‘galling serfdom’ coexists with a human rights law shall choke on its own contradictions and collapse. The criminal proceedings began eventually: charges were pushed against the plantation and factory owners. These charges constituted an important piece of circumstantial evidence —although the explanation, based on moral convictions and a civil rights law, did not tell seriously against them. The abolitionists would say that that there is no greater crime than the murder of the weak and defenseless, and serfs are, above all, humans. 

Soon, such proceedings — the abolitionists against the lairds, plantors and factory owners— became a common thing. The jury knew not what to say: the old legislation on slavery was not applicable to criminals (that the blacks are an inferior race to the whites and that might was the right of the white race… ), but there weren’t any other laws. Those convicted of a felony deemed worthy of penal servitude— but who exactly, for what exactly, and on what basis was never specified. Now, after half a year of unrest and hundreds of unfinished cases, the government saw no change for the better; indeed it was quite the other way. There was nothing but talk of endless revolts that overflowed plantations. 

The country was on the verge of the second Civil War. Of course, the new laws were required, those which would work within “The Bill of Rights” and, at the same time, maintain the old order and reinforce serfdom. The legislative establishment found the problem insoluble. 

That’s exactly when an unknown planter, a republican named Thomas Jefferson, came into the picture— seemingly out of nowhere. At first he was only employed in some other shady business, but now had suddenly realized something and jumped on the opportunity. One year a series of very solemn and obvious essays, titled ‘On the rights of a soulless creature’ were published in ‘The Liberty’. It was the day America found out about the new philosophy, which was later named “The Serf Theory.” 

“We, the mankind,” Jefferson wrote. “Developing by a historical living process, present a normal, sensible society. However, a social system (that has come out of some mathematical brain) thinks everyone is the same. _All men are not created equal._ Those who evade _a living process of life_ from the start commit crime instinctively and thus get enslaved. Obviously, it must be a congenital malformation, and therefore a serf does not possess a living soul. The living soul demands life, the soul shall not obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is capable of thinking! But what they have smells of death and can be made of India-rubber; It is not alive, has no will, is slavish from birth. And it comes in the end that you and me, in contrast to spineless serfs — are a sensible, spirited species! It’s seductively clear and you must not think about it. Ergo, if we create a separate social class, all contradictions will cease at once, since there will be nothing to contradict. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded. And so a serf is not a human being, and not even an animal. It is an inferior being, soulless by nature. Hence, the serfs are not to be afforded the same rights and freedoms as human beings. In fact, they are not to be afforded anything.”

The collection of essays was a stunning success. Later Jefferson proposed a list of the constitutional amendments, which proclaimed serfs to be another species, not equal to humans. Soon the revolutionary “Serf Theory” had become the new faith and code, while Jefferson himself got the title of а great thinker and an honorary member of the Republican party. Only perhaps those among the Republicans who were corrupted by the old training could seriously regard him as a benefactor. 

Well, never mind about Jefferson’s becoming. I do not have much interest in politics, and therefore it is very possible that I have twisted some facts. 

Meanwhile I had already retrieved the wine and now crossed the dining room, so as to pass down the corridor into the parlor.

“I already told you: he’s bought with my money.”

I shuddered and nearly dropped a tray with drinks. Two hushed voices were coming from the parlor, quarreling and scolding. I crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening. 

“He’s mine on paper, though. I shall do what I please. What do you want from me? Why did you come?” 

“Pure interest.”

“Not true.”

“Well, well. What, do you find him good-looking?” 

“How is...”

“Though you differ so much from me in your admiration for beauty. Anyhow, this young man is sure to succeed in the role you have chosen for him.” 

I became terribly roused. 

"That is quite enough. I don’t have a ‘role’ for him. And what right, indeed, do you have to question me so crudely?”

“No, do tell me: I assume you still feel bad about… Having certain desires towards the forbidden fruit? What, did you dress him like this to make him look like a woman? It isn't working. While he is scrawny, he is not effeminate. Well, maybe a little bit, but…

“Stop!”

There was a loud thud. 

I tried to calm down. 

“It’s not about me. It cannot be about me.” 

Ignoring a sick, frightened feeling, I moved a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that I might not have the appearance of eavesdropping; I pressed my hand against my throbbing heart, then squeezed the edges of a silver tray and pushed the door with my shoulder. 

An unexpected scene was passing in the room. Hamilton stood in the middle of the parlor, and his distraught eyes stared down at Jefferson. Jefferson was sitting gracefully on the edge of an armchair and looked as if he had made a very good joke. Both of them glanced back at me simultaneously.

“Hm.” 

Hamilton sat down on the divan in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even boredom. 

“Took you long enough,” he said, with visible tension. “Quick, pour us some wine.” 

With a sinking heart I came up to Hamilton, popped off the cork and began to pour the drink. He did not take his piercing, unpleasant gaze off me. “ _But could it be that he heard me again?”_

Then I came to Jefferson. Began pouring. My hands were quivering, and my heart kept beating and thumping so that I could hardly breathe.

I hadn’t bothered to take off the gloves, and perhaps it was the greatest, the dumbest mistake I had ever made.

The bottle slipped out of my hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It's unrealistic  
> [2] I swear  
> [3] Suppose that  
> [4] Do you forgive me?


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence

HAVE YOU EVER by accident placed your hand on a strong battery, and got through your fingers a shock that for a moment bereaves you of your very reason? If so, you can have but a faint impression of what I felt when the bottle slipped out of my hands. 

I saw it clearly—just as things grow in fast movies— how shards of glass, mixed with scarlet drops, gushed everywhere. As if under the action of a strong electric current, distracted by terror, I started. I was not afraid of Hamilton, of course. He was a short man, with very weak nerves, an inveterate smoker, too. As weak and irritable people are wont to do, all his accumulated irritability made him waste his breath on threats. But Jefferson… We have met before — he was very closely associated with some of my father’s deals. Jefferson had been one of the most powerful ends that ever were in the government, and his build was as solid as his social standing. Needless to say, I felt an immense fear for him. 

A long familiar feeling of stupor came over me. Time itself seemed to stand still and I felt as though I would remain immobilized for eternity. This was, obviously, an illusion—a vision of my over-heated fancy. For as soon as I shifted, the world came alive and began spinning with a new, frightening force. 

Jefferson startled up and stared down at his feet. His pant leg was stained with wine. Hamilton stood up from his armchair, glanced at Jefferson, then at me. The appearance of most genuine fear in his eyes made me feel dizzy. A dreadful terror came over me at last, and I felt like I would faint from a bone-chilling presentiment. Suddenly Jefferson turned to Hamilton and looked at him strangely, as if waiting impatiently for something. I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his dress coat. I began moving my tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly, trying to say at least something. Jefferson turned around, stepped over the puddle of wine and grabbed me by my hair. 

“Ah, vil esclave!” he yelled in a frenzy. “What have you done?”

I gazed down and trembled. 

“Forgive me, forgive me,” faltered I, shaken to and fro by my hair. “I shall clean everything up, everything…” 

“Clean everything up, huh? A worm, that's what you are, if you don't know how to handle your own hands!” 

He raised his fist, but did not strike; at this very moment, Hamilton, who was previously observing the scene from his seat, came along.

“Thomas!” he cried. ‘Enough! Stop! Leave him be…” 

Jefferson looked wildly and fixedly for some time on me, and then let go. 

“John,” Hamilton put his hand on my shoulder. “Clean this mess up. Now.” 

I got down on my hands and knees and began picking up the shards of glass. A terrible vision was mixing itself up with whatever I tried to be doing. Hamilton, holding my head still; Jefferson, ripping out my tongue. I was unwilling to leave the situation without a proper apology, but thought it unnecessary to say anything more. Hamilton already had the air of a positively ashamed man, and to no surprise. I must admit, I was happy with this kind of outcome. I did not wish to smear the whole story around. 

“I am sorry,” gabbled Hamilton. “For perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing that even a thing like him would understand what was due on a visit of so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to apologize simply for…” 

“Don’t worry, please.” Jefferson drew out a cambric handkerchief reeking of scent and began to dab his pant leg. “I am completely certain that you will teach him a lesson… After I leave.” 

I shuddered and looked at him, frightened. 

“Oh, look, I scared him,” said he, as if reading my mind. “I would never think that he is… Such a coward.” 

Hamilton looked at him in a way that made me feel quite uncomfortable.

“Yes…” answered he, getting a cigar out of his pocket. “Upbringing, upbringing is what matters. Those who live carelessly under a parent wing usually grow up to be…” 

“Spineless?”

“Exactly.” 

“I suppose it’s not that.” 

“What is it, then?” echoed Hamilton. 

I set the glass down on the coffee table.

“Here, listen.” Jefferson let his hand rest on the back of the armchair. “In our business we have to observe serfs, whether you like or not. Of course, that would not be gentlemanly to observe too closely. And yet, few instances are worth special attention: but not otherwise than taking all this filth as its own sort of performance set up for our amusement. However, you oughtn’t to observe too closely: again that would not be gentlemanly, because in any case the spectacle isn’t worth too great or close an inspection… Anyway, back to what I was saying. For the first years after my proclamations went into effect, I was still planning a book and every day seriously prepared to write it. I believe you remember about it?”

Apparently, Jefferson enjoyed delivering long speeches. 

“I do.” 

“So. The new turn of affairs struck me at first in a rather favourable light in spite of some fresh and troublesome complications. But soon I had gotten so tired and helpless, that my soul involuntarily yearned for rest. I had an attack of spleen all of a sudden. I seemed to be ready for work, my materials were collected, yet the work did not get done. I even took a trip to Virginia, to renew my strength.”

“And?” 

“Listen, listen. Meanwhile, I’ve had thirty heads on my plantation. Everything used to be running like clockwork: everyone was on duty in time, and there weren’t any illnesses, as it often the case in hot climates. But, as soon I sank into dejection, something changed. The work slowed down, complaints began going around… And above all, the sales dropped. In other words, my serfs had a similar spleen attack.”

Hamilton visibly tensed up: he was literally chewing on his cigar. By that moment I had managed to collect all the shards and was now about to go grab the washing cloth. Needless to say, I absolutely refused to stay in the parlor. The long time I had spent in a laird family had left ineradicable traces in my heart. The official history of the _Serf Theory_ was fairly familiar to me; but I could never understand the real meaning of it. Now I felt like a man lost in a forest, among the wolves. Every instinct told me that there was something in Jefferson’s words utterly incongruous, anomalous, and grotesque. _“Though there’s no telling what may happen because of his convictions,”_ I mused, lost in perplexity.

“And then I came to thinking,” continued Jefferson. “Is an inanimate soul, in all its filth and meanness, able to adopt certain traits of its master? To me personally it seemed that all this was very much worth quite a close inspection, especially for someone who wants to grasp the nature of serfs… I believe I wrote this down somewhere.”

“What’s the object of this farce?” Hamilton interrupted, losing patience. “I’m too familiar with all of your theories — it’s beyond boring. As for innermost moral convictions of yours, in regard to my serfs and my present reflections there is, of course, no place for them.”

_“Do people pick grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles?”_

“What?”

“Use your head. Than means that a serf is, in fact, able to do so. Thus, if your serf is a weak coward, you are the one to blame. You and your weak temper.”

“Are you calling _me_ a coward?” 

Hamilton turned positively green. His vanity was wounded.

“That’s not what I said. And yet you have full power, but do nothing,” Jefferson obstinately insisted on some point. “Alexander, you are so devoted to me, but cannot handle a simple advice.” 

“I beg you to leave me alone,” Hamilton began with agitated haste, obviously anxious to avoid some previous conversation.

“You always say witty things, and sleep in peace satisfied with what you’ve said, but then recant. You are weak, and the serf is your mere reflection. Admit that!”

“He’s not that weak, for that matter.” Hamilton objected. 

“Are you defending him? This vicious young man? You’re such a hypocrite…” 

They seemed to forget about my presence. I clenched my fists.

“Thomas, you’ve sworn to torment me…”

“Expelled from an academy on suspicion of transvestism and plots against the government. He has been under supervision, and undoubtedly still is so. An insignificant abolitionist, who fancies himself a hero and a liberator. You are losing your chance of distinction by letting slip the real criminal. Moreover, you indulge his whims, dressing him up as a transvestite he desires to be.”

Hamilton shuddered, but did not give up.

“Look, his father is a senator; a worthy man…”

“But you are mixing up the father and the son. The son openly laughs at his father.”

“That’s only a mask.”

“You are a coward!” Jefferson said, losing his self-restraint at once. “And your serf is the same. You punished him with cross-dressing…” 

He smirked. 

“And even then, only because you find a certain perverted pleasure in it.”

“Enough! Enough, Thomas!” cried Hamilton. “Allow me… On second thought, you know what? John!” 

Either because he really took Jefferson’s last outbreak as a direct permission to act as he wanted, or whether he was sure that such action will satisfy his overwhelming self-absorption— I do not know. He cast a haughty and offended glance at me, as though my very presence was an affront to him. I swallowed a lump in my throat. 

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton?” 

He took a step forward and grabbed me by my ear. I yelped in surprise. 

"Go get a whip from the dressing room." 

Such a requirement caught me off guard. 

“What? What for?”

“Hurry. Go get it before I tear your ear off.” 

He darted a terrible glance of wrath at me, and at once I understood how serious he actually was. I had never seen Hamilton— this weak, nervous snob— in such a frenzied rage. Perhaps if Jefferson was not in the room I would not hesitate to fly at him and at once set myself free from a terrible burden of serfdom. But, Intensely unpleasant as it was, I was forced little by little to accept everything as a fact beyond recall.

As I mounted the stairs I felt so weak and exhausted that it seemed as if I were walking in a trance. _“God, how loathsome it all is! And can he, can he possibly.... No, it’s nonsense! And how could such an atrocious thing come into his head?”_

Fear gained more and more mastery over me. Suddenly I sensed that I was suffocating. _“Maybe if I could climb down the wall, and then run till I reach the city… No, it’s no good.”_

I stood before the window for some time. I wished for nothing, and could not reason about anything coolly. There was a sort of heaviness in my face, especially under my eyes, my forehead felt drawn tight like elastic. I wiped my cheeks, entered the dressing room and began searching. Quite soon I found the whip — those kinds of whips were used to flog serfs on plantations and factories.

My father possessed a similar instrument. In my childhood I happened to witness enough horrifying scenes: I had often seen serfs straining their utmost under a heavy load, and father would beat them so cruelly, sometimes even about their faces, and I felt so sorry, so sorry for them that I cried, and my mother always used to take me away. That’s how my father was. I was born first, born of a comparatively healthy mother, and so I was finer and sturdier than all the other Laurens sons. I can remember my father correcting me, or, to speak plainly, beating me before I was five years old. He used to thrash me with a burch, pull my ears, and even beat me on the head.

Childhood memories made me feel sick. I went down the stairs, looking about me anxiously and abscently. I strode slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. All my ideas now seemed to be circling round some single circumstance, and I felt that now I was left facing it one-on-one. However, my resentment was almost as discomforting as my fear. Perhaps it was my fault: I must remind the reader again that Jefferson was one of those planters that know nothing of mercy, and, of course, It was not wise of me to anger him. “It is clear as day,” I mused. “Hamilton acts by his command.”

To my great astonishment, the parlor was empty (at least that’s how it seemed). I froze in the doorway and gazed round the room. _“Could it be that they did not await me?”_ I mused. _“Weird. There must have been an object. Were they simply trying to scare me?”_

However, as soon as I released my breath and crossed the threshold, all of my doubts gave way. 

Someone sprang at me from behind and squeezed me in such a way that I almost screamed. Of course, Hamilton was lurking behind the very door. I panicked.

“Wait! Let me go!”

“I cannot.”

Apparently he was going to beat me on the spot, with no hesitation. I cried out loud, for he hoisted my arm behind my back painfully. Jefferson stood near us, by he door.

“Why? Stop, stop, what are you doing?” 

“Calm down!” 

My voice broke and the words came in shrieks from my panting chest.

“Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!” cried Hamilton. “Thomas, for God’s sake…” 

“Why, are you crazy?” Jefferson huffed. “Deal with him yourself.”

Here I swung my elbow, with all my might struck Hamilton in the face and managed to break free. Though he was quick enough to snatch the whip from me. 

“Madman, you’ve almost strangled me!” I yelled. “I say, what’s this you’re doing?”

We stood opposite from one another on both sides of the doorway. 

“What I choose. Come back here!”

“What do you choose?”

“The same as before. I could do as I like and I can still do as I like, for I am the master”

I turned to Jefferson. He watched us intently and did not say a single word. 

“You made up your mind long ago to take my life,” hissed I. “Is that what you choose? Huh?” 

“I oughtn’t to explain. The law bounds you to obey.” 

“Hang your explanation, and who the devil am I bound to?” 

“Really?” he eyed me up and down. “Why, it does indeed amuse me to see you in a fury. You ought to pay for the fact alone that I allow you to make such surmises...” 

“ _I do indeed_ consider it my right to put all sorts of questions to you,” I persisted. “Precisely because you, all of you,” I squinted at Jefferson. “You care nothing for the lives of others. I am an abolitionist, and I shall stay an abolitionist.” 

Perhaps I went a bit too far, because Hamilton went off into his hysterical laughter immediately. 

“What? How are you going to achieve that?”

“How achieve it? What, you don’t even understand. Nevermind, one day you will look at me otherwise than as a serf...” I felt breathless. “Corrupted, decaying motherfuckers, that’s what you are! Just as ignorant as this damned country.”

A moment’s silence followed. Hamilton’s face was pale and distorted, and a bitter, wrathful and malignant smile appeared on his lips. I was hoping that he would argue, hotly and for a long time, in return for my insult. The idea had occurred to me to say nothing else and walk away proudly, and so give the two men a sharp and emphatic lesson. But I could not bring myself to do this. 

Jefferson cleared his throat. I glanced at him and was surprised at his gaze: it seemed purposeless and inexplicable. He looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor girl with child. I did not understand why.

But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something unexpected. Hamilton held out his hand and dropped the whip, his eyes remaining riveted on me. I stood facing him in perplexity. 

“John.” said he, lifting up his head defiantly as if he were facing the whole world. My cheeks had now assumed a deep tropical burn. “Pick it up, please.” 

I frowned and stared at him for a time, warily. The intention was obvious, though: he was trying to mock me. I clenched my fists and shook my head. 

“I will not.”

“You will not?”

“No way.”

If usually Hamilton could have been depressed by a mere sideway glance, now he did not even flinch from a direct affront; the fact that he asked me to do such a bizarre thing was really less surprising than that. 

“You must have not understood something,” said he. His voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the parlor with thrilling scorn.“What do you think, that I’ll feel sorry for you? Well, no. I’ll order you to do something vile, and stay out of it myself. Can you bear that? No, how could you. How are you better than we are? You, presumptuous chatterbox, are playing the hero, and yet you might probably kill on orders. Let us see: a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful soul of a liberator, not simply useless but doing actual mischief — so many lives thrown away! Let me ask you this: where are all those whom you saved from ‘corruption and decay’?”

“I do not understand,” mumbled I. Something heavy was griping at my heart. 

“You are no hero,” pushed Hamilton. “One life, and a dozen lives in exchange—it’s simple arithmetic! And what value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-natured liberator then? No more than the life of a louse, of a worm, less in fact because you are doing harm. You are the one who is wearing out the lives of others. It's all about egoism. Tell me, _was I_ the one who killed 12 serfs?”

I staggered in the middle of the room. The floor seemed to be giving way under my feet. Perhaps I could have handled a painful reminder of my guilt, if not this cold, piercing gaze. My hands were trembling like aspen leaves—nay, my whole body was quivering. 

“Anyhow, you do not own my mind. You cannot handle my thoughts.” muttered I, taken by a complete void already. 

Hamilton listened with not so much as a blink. 

“Like I need your lousy thoughts. Body would be enough. I could set dogs on you. Cut your finger off. Beat you. Make you eat slops. Do you wish to eat slops?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I have the right to do so. Don’t be stupid, John,” He pointed at the whip. “Pick it up.” 

There was so much contempt, so much condemnation in his gaze and his voice, that I did not dare to protest. A reminder of my crime (though I did not view it as a crime) struck a nerve. A burning guilt, which had begun torturing me long before the events described, came to live and devoured all the other thoughts. Crushed and even humiliated, I came to Hamilton, bent over and picked up the whip, whilst he kept his eyes fixed upon me, dark and alarming. It made me worse.

“Very good.” Hamilton took the whip and smiled. “You may leave now.” 

My eyes opened wide. 

_“It must be some sort of sick joke…”_

Hamilton looked at Jefferson, who had been watching us from his armchair the entire time. 

“Perhaps it would be enough,” said he. “It’s a lesson.” 

In such a moment I could not bring myself to calm down, and yet I felt like a weight had been lifted off of me. Hamilton seemed worried, still, which contravened the usual dryness of his manners. 

“Do you really forgive him? After such words?” said Jefferson with irritable impatience. “Allow me… He did not even apologize.” 

“I apologize.” I made haste to get a word in. 

“What a shame. You have not proven anything, then.” 

A pause. Then, taking a long breath and straightening his shoulders Hamilton remarked:

“Anything?” 

It was said with such bitterness that I suddenly got scared. I was about to recoil, but he caught me by my shoulder. 

“Well, well,” reasoned Jefferson. “No need.”

“But it’s injust…”

“Mr. Hamilton,” Jefferson interrupted him. “If you would not do it, there’s no justice about it… We have nothing to talk about. I get it now.” 

I suddenly realised that the events took the wrong turn. What did I do? I really don't know. I must have said something—I must have done something, but I have not the slightest recollection of what it was. I only recollect how I was pushed, and how I fell into the puddle of wine. I recollect how a sharp heel pressed against the back of my head. I tried to leap up, tried to cry out with all my might, and to run in haste to escape. But no sound came from my chest, and my legs would not obey me.

Devil knows, maybe there is pleasure in the whip, when the whip comes down on your back and tears your flesh to piece. At first I writhed, bit my lips until they bled, curled my fingers against the carpet and screamed; probably wailed like crazy. At the same time horrible visions began to float before my eyes. I saw my father, saw our serfs, struggling with their legs, screaming and shrinking from the blows of a knout which were showered upon them like hail. And all at once through the chaos in my brain there flashed the terrible unbearable thought that people of plantations had to endure such pain day by day for years. How could it have happened that for more than twenty years I had not known it and had refused to know it? I knew nothing of pain. All I had just said seemed to me repulsively stupid. Why had I talked to them in a lecturing tone about my contempt? It was not clever, not interesting; it was false — childish even. But by degrees there followed that mood of indifference into which criminals sink after a severe sentence. I began thinking that, thank God! everything was at an end and that the terrible uncertainty was over; that now there was no need to anticipate, in pining, in thinking about the punishment. Everything had happened already. I did not cry at the thrashing anymore, but gave a strange sob at each blow. In spite of acute pain I imagined that the punishment was already over, and that Hamilton was whipping someone else, not me. Though, I must admit, I was already in the last agony: I no longer felt the blows individually; they all merged into a single, continuous stream of searing pain.

At the same instant my wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and I saw Theodosia. Till then I had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow. With unnatural strength I had succeeded in propping myself on my elbow. I tried to hold out my hand to her, but losing my balance fell face downwards on the carpet. When I gazed up for the second time, nobody was there. I dare say I simply imagined it. 

Then all went still. The whip hit the floor, and the leather sole was no longer weighing upon my neck. I did not hear anything, and I only saw Hamilton’s brightly polished shoes. 

“Fourteen. Anything for you, Thomas.” 

I raised my head. Hamilton stood, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his waistcoat pockets. I could not see Jefferson: Hamilton’s shoes blocked the view.

“John, get up.” 

I now was in a sort of cloud, feeling as though I were not myself, but my double. My head swam and ached with fever. I tried to stand up, but suddenly a violent spasm of pain deprived me of all power and all determination, and with a loud groan I fell back on the floor. I felt as though someone had taken a sickle, thrust it into me, and turned it round several times in my back.

“Such filth,” muttered Jefferson. 

Hamilton helped me to my feet and signed with an obstinately downcast, as it were shamefaced, expression in his eyes. As though he realized at last what he was doing—and as though he had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. I did not care about it much, however. 

“Go,” he mumbled. “I'll have Theodosia clean this mess. Go upstairs."

“Fine.” I answered in a hoarse, unnatural voice. I was tormented by another persistent sensation besides terror and the feeling of resentment. I could barely breathe and craved to escape from these people.

That’s exactly what I did — I walked silently, unsteadily, staggering from side to side like a drunkard. Then I stumbled upstairs in the dark. It felt like going down, down into a deep well. I was still shivering nervously. I looked down at myself; the apron, stockings and gloves were all now red, and it was impossible to differ wine from blood. 

I hobbled into the dressing room, closed the door and sunk to the floor. In the corner by the wall stood a long rack with clothes hanging from it. I crawled to it on my knees and perched within the chain of black and white dresses. 

Just like that, I sank into blank forgetfulness: on the floor, under the canopy of black skirts, bruised and miserable. 

So I slept a very long while. Now and then I seemed to wake up, and at such moments I noticed that it was far into the day, but it did not occur to me to get up. Finally, at about midnight, the creak of a door woke me. For the first moment I thought it was the master of the house. A dreadful chill came over me; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in my sleep Someone stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after them, went up to me, and put something heavy on the floor. I had hardly opened my eyes to see who it was. There was complete stillness in the room and the faint moonlight came through the window. Vella squatted down and bent on me a long, pitiful gaze. She was the one being in the house whom I sincerely cared for. And, when she looked at me with that gaze I suddenly understood that this being I cherished was suffering. My heart skipped a beat. I felt a lump in my throat. 

“I want to leave this place,” faltered I. “I can't put up with this. I am not equal to it..."

“Where? You can't, you can't,” whispered Vella. “Let us take that dress off.” 

She took a cloth out of a water bucket.

“I don’t know!” I sobbed. “Miss Smith, I have to leave.”

My voice broke. 

“I have to!” 

“I know, I know.” 

We sat like that for a long time. Vella was wiping the blood from my back, whilst I couldn’t stop crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t take this shit out of context I beg you


	6. V

NEXT MORNING my head ached, there was a droning in my ears and a feeling of utter weakness all over. My back felt numb. I lay there as though in a trance, without sleep, perfectly motionless. At night, on my way to the barrack, I had been cowardly, had even been afraid of the moon and my own shadow. I went to sleep as I was, without undressing and with my hair tied up. I was ashamed to recall the day before. 

I woke up, hearing someone come in. I opened my eyes and saw Lee standing in the doorway.

“Eh, the Gallic cock! Are you asleep?”

Every day the serfs gathered in the barrack, and, despite seeming quite uncouth, had the most lively and even intellectual conversations: they were occupied with nothing else but arguments about the future organisation of society, religion, the woman and race questions. Charles Lee, whom I met at first with distrust and sullenness, was responsible for correspondence. Others used to call him a postman and respected him scarcely. McCarty was the youngest of all, looked upon me as a chatterbox and a parvenu, concealed something from me and whispered mysteriously every evening with Belcher. Belcher had entered Hamilton’s service two years ago, and was the headman in the gardens, where he performed the duties of a warden. I cannot recall the other two. I went to the barrack every day, of course, but tried not to have any conversations (and alltogether all those conversations struck me as a very queer business). I was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes, when I was alone with any one, I became talkative and effusive, and would get into arguments. At first the serfs did not like me. For example, my habit of using french words and making sentimental speeches seemed to them trivial (that’s why they called me a Gallic cock). But as they got to know me better, they started treating me rather more kindly. Lee was especially frank, he was open with me, he liked talking to me in a low voice in the evening and even gave me newspapes to read. I seemed to belong to them, and each time I entered the barrack dressed as a woman it never aroused the slightest mockery. But still, as before I did not know what would happen if Lee procured a newspaper with the latest gossip. 

“I am not. What time is it?” asked I, looking at Lee uneasily.

“Well, you had a fine sleep, my friend, it’s midday, it will be one o’clock directly. Even Hamilton came to see you. Twice.”

“Has he been here long ago?”

“Two hours ago.”

“No, before.”

“How do you mean?”

“How long has he been coming here?” 

Lee mused.

“Why, since nine o’clock… What a weird business! I thought he’d wake you, scold you… But no: he walked in, looked at you and then left, didn’t even say a word. Hm!” Lee started, as though he remembered something. “I fancied at night that you weren’t here… Why did you sleep in a dress? And where’ve you been yesterday? I didn’t see you.” 

“Yes, yes.... Of course it’s very weird....” muttered I in reply, but probably with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Lee gazed at me in perplexity. He came closer.

“How do you feel, my friend? Are you ill?” 

“I am quite well. I am not ill.” 

I sat up, as if trying to prove my words, but winced from acute pain. Lee eyed me, then looked at the bunk and suddenly his eyes opened wide. 

“What the hell is that?” he cried. 

“Where? What?”  


Lee pointed at the bunk. I lowered my gaze and was norhorrified: grey sheets were covered with maroon stains, as though someone was murdered on the very spot. I scrutinised it, silent and frowning. 

“What is it, Henry?” mumbled Lee in a weak voice.

“It’s the blood,” I answered softly, as though speaking to myself. 

“Blood! What blood?” 

I kept staring at the bunk. _ “Why, I changed the dress yesterday…”  _

“What is the matter with you? Is that why you returned late? What happened?” 

I shook my head. 

“Oh— don’t be uneasy. It was when I cut myself yesterday…” 

Lee did not believe me. Of course. If I were him, I would not believe myself either. He grabbed me by my shoulders and made me turn my back to him. For ten full seconds he was quiet.

“Jeez,” said he at last. “What did you do? Yesterday, I heard it… But I thought I was just imagining things.”

I made no answer. Lee still stood over me, watching me.

“I cannot believe it. Perhaps we should call Belcher…” 

“No need!” I made haste to stop him. “What’s the use of telling anybody? If they don't ask, why should we worry them?

My nerves were more and more strained. My head began to go round. Lee paused, as though hesitating; then agreed. 

“What did you do?” he repeated. 

“I spilled wine...” 

I chose to avoid all unnecessary talk, for I did not want to mention all the disrespectful and jeering remarks that I had made. It seemed to me that such an exceedingly simple answer perplexed and bitterly confounded Lee.

“What a vile plantor!” muttered he. “A fiend! Comes into this house like he belongs here. The serfs are not even his, and yet he keeps snooping around. Beats you to the quick with a damned whip…” 

“Why, It wasn’t Jefferson.”.

“How do you mean it wasn’t Jefferson? The papers make it clear: he is the sort of man who won’t give up his object, you know; If he sets his heart on killing someone he won’t be afraid of anything. It would be foolish to assume that Hamilton…” 

“The fact is Hamilton did it, though,” I interposed roughly and with a note of vexation. “Why does everyone defend him? Am I the only one who sees in him a tyrant?”

Lee frowned, looking intently at me. An indefinable expression of a blank, incredulous wonder, at once definitely unusual but vaguely familiar, passed over his face. I recognized it almost immediately: a week prior, Vella looked at me with a similar incredulous expression.

“Are you trying to say that Hamilton beat you?” 

“That’s how it was.”

Lee sat down with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation.

“There's something you're not telling me.” said he. “I have known Mr. Hamilton for a year and a half; he is morose, yes, gloomy, proud and haughty. Perhaps not at all haughty, but simply cold and inhumanly callous. And yet he is kind and generous: it’s as though he were alternating between two characters. I am telling you, he’d never beat any of us. It’s not characteristic of him. Perhaps you got something wrong?”

“Then I must be going crazy.”

“No, wait…” 

“I said what I said, Charles. He only pretends to be kind. Perhaps you are wondering at my words, perhaps you do not believe me… But I know the truth. And I do not wish to argue any longer.”   


I began walking out of the barrack. Lee startled up.

“At least let me see the welts,” he bounded after. “You are spattered with blood!”

“Could have been worse.” 

It is remarkable that, in addition to immense moral fatigue and unbearable pain in my back, I was starving. I felt as though I could swallow an entire turkey in one go.  _ “It’s quite clear,” _ I mused.  _ “I haven’t eaten anything yesterday. Perhaps I should go to the kitchen…”  _

And my drowsiness and stupefaction were suddenly followed by an extraordinary, feverish anxiety. I crept almost on tiptoe, stealthily, casting hurried glances around me. But all was quiet in the house as if everyone was asleep… It seemed to me strange and monstrous that I could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and no one said anything to me.  _ “What made me think,” _ I reflected, as I crossed the parlor,  _ “What made me think that I would be sure to meet him? What am I so afraid of?” _

I could have laughed at myself in anger. When I reached the kitchen, the door of which was open as usual, I glanced cautiously in. Theodosia was occupied there, kneading dough in a big tin pot. Upon seeing me, she wiped her hands on her apron and asked after a moment’s silence: 

“Will you eat it or not?”

I cleared my throat and averted my eyes.

“I will.” 

“Sit down then. I have soup.”

I obliged. With the soup Theodosia gave me a spoon, salt, pepper, mustard, and a handkerchief. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. Even the cloth was clean. I looked at all this with profound astonishment.

“And will you have tea?”

“Yes.”

I was suddenly embarrassed.  _ “So I was not not wandering,” _ I thought. _ “She saw everything. She was real…” _

“Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself.”

I nodded and ate a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that I might not burn myself. But the soup was only just warm. I swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. Before I knew it, the bowl was empty. Theodosia put a cup of tea on the table and sat down opposite from me. Her face wore a look of genuine sympathy. I almost got up to go away—so unpleasant was this to me. I did not like to be pitied. But I overcame the sudden sense of my shame and remained; drank the tea. Theodosia was now looking at me as if some question had been asked or was in the air.

“Do you need anything?”

I was surprised at such an offering (of course it was an offering) from such a categorical woman. 

“No, I do not.” 

She nodded. Then, after the formalities, uttered with an evident awkwardness on both sides, I rushed upstairs and stood still in the middle of the corridor, listening. I was still much distracted by some inner overpowering agitation; I was afraid of something unexpected. The clang was coming from the master office — that one, as if it were of a tin bell. Drawing a breath, pressing my hand against my throbbing heart, I went on. Then I reached the dressing room, cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat, slipped in and closed the door behind me. 

With amazement I gazed at myself, wondering how I could have stained the bedding in a fresh dress. 

I rushed to the window. There was light enough, and I began hurriedly looking myself all over from head to foot. I found my own body hideous. A proverb “L’habit ne fait pas le moine” didn’t seem to apply to me any longer— for the transition from a man to a sickly transvestite was so complete. Sometimes I felt like my attire was cursed. 

I undressed, turned everything over to the last threads and rags, and mistrusting myself, went through my search three times. But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where some thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the edge of my linen. A little more, and all this would have been beyond my power of comprehension. But then I reached for my back and ran my fingers over it.  _ “It cannot be…” _ I was going to feel it a bit longer, but a spasm of pain made me draw back my hand; and indeed everything was evident without that. My fingers were covered in blood, as though I had been bleeding at the very moment, and not only at night. I turned cold from the crown of my head to my heels. The first thing I did was to wipe my blood-stained fingers on the black cotton of the dress.  _ “Of course! It’s black, and on black blood isn’t noticeable,” _ the thought passed through my mind; then I suddenly came to myself.  _ “Good God! What am I going to do now? What if I lose too much blood? What if I die?”  _

All at once I heard distinctly a loud creak, as though someone had stepped on a wonky floorboard. Then there came the sound of swift footsteps, exceedingly rapid footsteps; I shrank into myself, as it were, and stood as though frozen to the spot. Then I began dressing convulsively. My fingers were stiff, and I felt an unnatural weakness in my hands. However, I was not worried with the unpleasant sensation itself, but for my somewhat anxious mood. Back then, I had not yet rid myself of the juvenile vulnerability, aggravated by my manhood. I refused to admit that I was scared, and that the beating was the reason for my fear. Facts and common sense persuaded me that all these terrors were nonsense and morbidity, that in arrest and imprisonment I went through the worst; but the more sensibly and logically I reasoned, the more acute and agonizing my mental distress became. It might be compared with the story of a hermit who tried to cut a dwelling place for himself in a virgin forest; the more zealously he worked with his axe, the thicker the forest grew.

Perhaps this anxiety was the reason why I overlooked one disturbing circumstance: the door of the dressing room, which had been shut before, was now opened a tiny crack. 

***

SOON I decided to make myself useful: I slipped downstairs, got a mop and a bucket. It’s not like I wanted to work; quite the contrary. The labor was feminine, and therefore humiliating. I only wished to distract myself. My mother—although considered a very light person— had taken more care of my bringing up than many serious, prosy, fussy mothers would have done; she never taught me how to cook or clean— activities that many women accustom their sons to out of mere stubbornness. “What kind of man,” she always said, whenever I would touch a broom, “What kind of man would do the chores if he has a wife? You are a boy of exalted origin, and therefore you needn’t worry about it…”

However, despite such discourse she did her best to withhold me from all early temptations, and in fact she really succeeded in keeping me out of mischief. I was therefore in my younger years far more innocent than any of my school fellows, yet I managed to hide my utter ignorance by pretending to be a ladies' man and blasé.

It is needless to say that the cleaning was an effort. I puffed, hissed and writhed in pain whenever I leaned forward or crouched. I felt somewhat mortified and could not build up the courage to ask for a day of rest. It has not escaped my attention that my demeanor had changed dramatically. I had obviously and rapidly deteriorated, and it was true that I had become too circumspect. I was full of forebodings, afraid of something inevitable. The whole day Theodosia didn’t say a word to me, despite her being kind in the morning. Her earlier manner with me did not change. The same complete carelessness of attitude when we met, and even something scornful and hateful. In spite of that, she also did not conceal from me that she pitied me.

After cleaning the music room, I went out into the corridor and began mopping the floors. Monotonous work was soothing; a weight seemed to be rolling from my heart. I was in a rather morbid state of health and mind, so labor must have had an uncommon effect upon my nerves. However, soon enough the anxiety tenfold heavier had fallen on my shoulders: the door of the master office opened. I shuddered. At that instant the two came out into the corridor: Vella first, Hamilton behind her. There was something in their appearance that positively alarmed me. Unexpectedly meeting my eyes, Vella was not so much embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child. She was even about to retreat. She gave me the stiffest and most distant of bows and passed on, without saying a word. I had seen her yesterday at such a moment and in such surroundings, that, I must confess, I was expecting something different. Perhaps she did not wish to talk to me in Hamilton’s presence.

After following the maid with his eyes, Hamilton looked at me. His sharp, nosey face was of a sickly yellowish color, but had a vigorous expression. It would have been good-natured except for a haughty look in the eyes. Moreover he had managed to change his clothes once again— he was now flaunting in an exquisite flannel suit. I was suddenly angry. For some reason or another, I felt moved to insult him. _“Why this affectation of manner?”_ raged I. _“How dare he be so calm, expose his indifference so shamelessly?”_

It seemed as though he had forgotten about everything that happened yesterday, for with the influence of the clothing his personality had also undergone a change. For a moment I felt that I should like to be a wild beast—to drive my nails into his suit, to tear it into pieces like a cat does a mouse. I cared but little what became of me provided I could get rid of this aloof, cruel snob. His elaborate formality of speech, his desire to dress elegantly and to look down on everyone— he had always been like that. There was no beauty in this unobtrusive and banteringly inconsequential manner of his. It was as cool as his suits and his impersonal eyes in the absence of all sincerity.

Of course I was yet to get to know him better. In reality such conduct might have been strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. He had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his capacities, and sometimes— especially when he was alone with me— even gloated over his image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above all was his intelligence. He was in a constant search for ways to emphasize it. 

Suddenly Hamilton mumbled something incomprehensible, spinned on his heel and went back into his office. He did not close the door, though— perhaps he wanted me to stay. I was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that all my limbs were shaking. _“Again,”_ I thought. _“What am I afraid of?”_

He had only just gone in and taken a cigar, and not having yet lighted it, was standing weary and motionless before the window. In this position did he remain for a minute or so, without ever looking round at me. Into my head there came the uneasy thought: What is to happen now? I stood in the doorway, motionless. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation I had felt before began to come back more and more vividly. Finally Hamilton rose from the window, approached the table, and looked at me with a peculiar expression. He was not looking at me per se, but rather at my legs— and with such a concentrated air, that it seemed to me as though he was trying to find something. I looked at him in perplexity, not knowing whether I should get angry or merely be astonished. 

_ “Perhaps I am fancying it?” _ But no, it was unmistakable— Hamilton kept staring at my legs. My legs, by the way, were ordinary; slender though well-shaped, as firm as an acrobat.  _ “Or perhaps I got spattered with blood? The stockings are white after all, and on white blood is very noticeable… Of course. So I overlooked it. But why staring?” _

Before I could carry my thought through to the end, an absurd expression gleamed for a moment in Hamilton’s refined face. His pale cheeks flushed, and his eyes were now glittering with feverish brilliance.  I had never seen him so anxious before. I was more and more overcome by dismay and confusion, and my nervous shudder had passed into intense trembling. Hamilton would pull out a desk drawer, take the whip, grab me by my hair...

With a kind of effort I began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving: 

“Pardon me,” murmured I hardly audibly. “Did you want something?

Hamilton came to his senses.

“Yes…” said he, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, I did.” 

It made me uneasy, as though this answer had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me.

“I forbid you to speak with Smith.” 

My emotion just then was such that I could hardly stand; It was so sudden, so unfair, so wrong and so hurtful, that I somehow forgot how to speak. I had so many questions, but I could not ask them.

“And altogether do not let me see you beside her. Understood?” 

All at once my lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, I controlled myself, looking down. 

I clenched my fists and to my own surprise spoke softly, in a voice unlike my own:

“Understood.” 

_ No, what is it with me? —  _ I thought — _ Why am I obeying so resignedly? That’s not right! _

“Yes, Your Excellency,” corrected Hamilton. 

_ I shall retort. At this very moment, I shall! Well?  _

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

My cheeks flushed, and my chest heaved. I wanted to scream. Hamilton nodded and lit up a cigar.

“Leave.”

I turned around and went off almost at a run; I meant to turn back, to say something, but I did not; I was positively scared. I had come down the stairs and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew me away.  _ “Why, I could have answered… Such filth. Such vileness.”  _

The fact was that up to the last moment I had never expected such an ending; I had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that this coarse brute would take my last sigh from me.

But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this. I did not want to think about Hamilton, about Vella, about yesterday. I did not want anything. I went downstairs, left the house, went round it and turned into the flower garden. The greenness and freshness were restful to my weary eyes after constant darkness of the house. There was no dust, no smoke, no smell of soap. The flowers attracted me the most, and I looked at them the longest. 

***

AFTER THIS we had a period of stagnation which lasted two weeks. I suddenly found myself in thorough wretchedness. But it was not the life of a serf, not the endless cleaning, the pain in my back, or the women’s clothes that crushed me. I was even happy to work— occupying myself with labor, I had at least distracted myself from vague and objectless anxiety that never left me alone. The monotonous, tedious work lulled my thoughts to sleep in some unaccountable way, and the time passed quickly while I thought of nothing. Even sitting in the kitchen, peeling potatoes with Theodosia or picking over the buckwheat grain, seemed to me interesting. In fact, it wasn't even about the beating — being a prisoner, I had it worse. 

It was about the master of the house, or rather, about the colossal vitality of his illusion. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time. No real threat can challenge what a man will store up in his heart. It was enough to think that behind the mask of indifference, grace, and assumed good nature, hid an actual beast. All these considerations wandered through my head each time I saw him. Vella did not talk to me anymore— she must have received the same order and decided to follow it without question. I could not stop wandering about the reason for such injustice. Though, true, it did happen that she would strive to open to me occasionally, as if inadvertently. But most of the time, even almost always, after such outbursts, we grew even more distant. She would give me a joyful smile of welcome, but, as her habit now was, would not say a word to me. And I would always steal a rapid glance at her and drop my eyes on the ground without speaking. I wanted to ask her for advice; I wanted her to say ‘blessed it be the day’ once again. Perhaps she did not understand that Hamilton was as unjust to her as he was to me. My heart was wrung with anguish when I thought of my present position. I was afraid but what could I do? I resolved to wait and be patient, even though I was getting worse each day— both emotionally and physically. As time went on, I grew more and more restless: I couldn't sit still, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't work; at last I grew even more thin and was very nearly ill. Sometimes Theodosia asked how I was feeling, but It would have been tactless to question me. I had become terribly suspicious, and sometimes detected some offensive hint in the simplest inquiry or remark.

I could not make peace with the fact that it was impossible to predict Hamilton’s actions, and thereupon I had become fearful and nervous. Besides, he had fallen into a weird habit of late. Sometimes, when I was doing the chores, he would stand beside me, watching me. And I could not find words to rebel. Fortunately, he did not talk to me. 

I kept reasoning and fearing, and meanwhile another week had passed. I must frankly admit, that, either owing to the derangement of my nerves, or the welts on my back, or my recent melancholy, I began at dusk to sink into that condition which I later called an “anxious raving.” It seems to me something like the anguish of people who are afraid of ghosts, werewolves or the dead. The only difference was that in my distress the indefiniteness of the apprehension made my suffering even more acute. 

I remember one evening I was cleaning the master bedroom and was almost done with changing the bedsheets. Suddenly at that very instant the thought struck me that when I turned round I should inevitably see Hamilton: he would stand in the doorway and look round the room, and there would be a whip in his hand. The fear of something passing all understanding and outside the natural order of things, as though in mockery of all the conclusions of reason, came to me and stood before me as an undeniable fact, hideous, horrible, and relentless. Then looking down Hamilton would come slowly towards me, would stand facing me, fix his dark eyes upon me and laugh in my face, a long, noiseless chuckle. The vision of all this suddenly formed an extraordinarily vivid and distinct picture in my mind, and at the same time I was seized by the fullest, the most absolute conviction that all this would infallibly, inevitably come to pass; that it was already happening, only I hadn’t seen it because I was standing with my back to the door, and that just at that very instant perhaps the door was opening. I looked round quickly, and… the door was closed. 

That day I became aware that my fear of Hamilton bereaved me of my very reason. Fortunately quite soon I had found some sort of distraction; a forbidden and risky distraction. I tried too hard to rid myself from the overwhelming despair and longing that loomed upon me like a thundercloud. That is why in the evenings, ill and despondent, I would find the strength to sneak into the library. Usually the servants went to sleep by this time, and Hamilton locked himself in his office, spending frequent rendezvous with a typewriter. No one could notice me. Still, in this business prudence and caution were most essential. I never turned on the lights, always walked on tiptoe and locked the door. 

The crisis which I then felt to be approaching had arrived soon, but in a form a hundred times more unexpected than I had looked for. It took me a few days before I realized that a disaster happened. Certain occurrences had befallen me which border upon the marvellous. At all events, that is how I view them. I view them so in one regard at least. I refer to the whirlpool of events in which, at the time, I was revolving.

In one of those evenings, which gave me no reason to think that something bad would happen, I waited for Hamilton to retreat into his office, went down the stairs, sneaked into the library and locked the door. Then I lit up the candle which stood in a battered copper candlestick. I must admit, Hamilton’s library was majestic: side by side with clumsy old pieces of furniture were superb easy-chairs, a large writing-table of excellent workmanship, a daintily carved bookcase, little tables, shelves. His library also was of a varied character: dozens of volumes on banking and law and serf-trade and translation stood on the shelves in gold and silver. There was so much to read, so much to unfold. I, however, did not wish to limit myself by reading only thus books. In the very corner on the room was a tiny shelf on which stood works “of drama and fiction, and perhaps something even worse.” I went there.

_ “I must be going crazy,”  _ I thought.  _ “Hiding in the darkness, taking no thought for the future, but living under the influence of passing moods. What a shame.”  _

I stood on my tiptoes and grabbed a book from the edge of the shelf. I sat down at the table.  _ “No, I am definitely crazy. I have already read this novel. Imagine that!”  _

_  
“You,” I said, “a favourite with Mr. Rochester? You gifted with the power of pleasing him? You of importance to him in any way? Go! your folly sickens me. And you have derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference—equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe!—Could not even self-interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief scene of last night?—Cover your face and be ashamed! He said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind puppy! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded to, must lead, ignis-fatuus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no extrication.” _

Perhaps now I seem like a fool to you; and to no surprise, for it must have looked like I was afraid to engage with serious literature, and therefore chose to read something womanish and sentimental. Otherwise, why would a grown man read “Jane Air?” Was I stupid? Lazy? Ignorant? Perhaps I was thus, but the chief reason lay not so much in that. I genuinely enjoyed love stories 

I wondered every time at my peculiar and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting myself, put off finding the explanation of it. Was I to blame if my taste in literature was somewhat like that of a naïve girl’s? And is it fair that in each conversation I had to to prevaricate, to lie about Greek Mythology? For if I were to confess that my preference was not “Satyricon”, but rather something juvenile and sentimental, people would judge me… Judge irrecoverably. 

Anyhow, in the simplicity of such stories there were romantic possibilities totally absent from my world.  _ “What is it up with the main character?” _ I mused.  _ “What would happen to her in the dim incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, some authentically radiant young man who with one fresh glance at her, one moment of magical encounter, would lose his head.” _

I dreamt of love. Love I thought was a quiet chaffy schoolyard flirtation, something soft, maudlin and æsthetic, quite different from that passion full of rage which my friends described to me. My heart was ardent and receptive. In my younger years I had believed myself bound to feel spoony, and I had done my best to persuade myself that I was deeply smitten. Having once casually come across a curly-haired young dancer, I had concluded that she was just what an ideal Juliet ought to be; sometimes I even tried to think of her when I had nothing to do. The affair ended soon, thankfully. 

In the past, opening a new book I would imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter into someone else’s life, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Someone follows _me_ to _my_ apartment on the corners of hidden streets, I turn and smile. A mysterious feeling takes over me, and a young smiling clerk whom I love dearly says to me “Later!”

In my head there was the mixture of quite childish images and fancies with serious ideas and notions gained from experience of life and at the same time with ideas of which I had no real knowledge or experience, abstract theories I had got out of books, though I probably mistook them for generalizations gained by my own experience.

I realised, however, that my life had already turned off the romantic path, and it shall never be as it was before. 

I read for a long while. But the longer I read, the farther my mind drifted away from the text. More and more often I had to stop and go back and re-read certain lines. The candle-end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, my eyelids felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon me. I stretched, closed the book and glanced at the clock. “Well, that’s quite enough,” I thought, getting up from the table. “I cannot be sitting here until dawn.” 

It was at this moment that I noticed a book which lay open on the other end of the table. Second-hand and with crumpled pages, the book looked as if it had been taken from a public library. “Ancient writing, perhaps?”

I went over, picked it up and read the title.

“Teleny…”

The name of the author—“Wilde”—was below; it seemed vaguely familiar to me.

I assumed that someone had read the book not so long ago. 

_“So that’s where he spends his free time,”_ flashed through my mind. _“In the library. Well, except not at night.”_

I opened the book on a random page and glanced through it. I must admit, I had got the novel and was about to study it solely in order that when the inevitable conflict with the master of the house came about I might know his arguments beforehand, from his taste in literature, and in that way be prepared to confute him all triumphantly. However, instead of the expected details, I saw something that had later played a cruel joke on me:

_ "Our two bodies were now in as close a contact as the glove is to the hand it sheathes, our feet were tickling each other wantonly, our knees were pressed together, the skin of our thighs seemed to cleave and to form one flesh. _

_ "Though I was loath to rise, still, feeling his stiff and swollen phallus throbbing against my body, I was just going to tear myself off from him, and to take his fluttering implement of pleasure in my mouth and drain it, when he—feeling that mine was now not only turgid, but moist and brimful to overflowing—clasped me with his arms and kept me down. _

_ "Opening his thighs, he thereupon took my legs between his own, and entwined them in such a way that his heels pressed against the sides of my calves. For a moment I was gripped as in a vice, and I could hardly move. _

I sat for a while almost in a frenzy, without blinking, drumming with my fingers on the page. But almost at the same minute, coming completely to myself, I jumped up from my chair and backed away, as one backs away from a snake. My feverish consternation was beyond words. I tried to calm myself down, but all at once my chin began trembling, and my chest kept heaving with emotion.  _ “He is either insane or…”  _

Utterly disconcerted and turning absolutely crimson, I began pacing the room. 

“So what of it?” I mused in terror. “All this, all these accusations will turn out to be true, then! Why, what will become of me now? It will kill me outright! Shame, disgrace, and through whom? Hamilton reads forbidden pornography, after all…” 

I was taken ill. So insufferably ill, that I could hardly stand. I leaned on a bookcase and covered my mouth with my hand. I have never seen such books— that is, books about the love of one man for another. I, of course, looked upon it as a monstrosity, a sin. I believed in God. I still do. I grew up in the Protestant family. So?

I pressed my legs together. A smouldering unknown fire began to kindle itself within my breast and far below. I felt a choking feeling as if something was gripping my throat.

“It’s a disease and a dangerous one. A contagious one! And could it be that… Cold it be that he infected me?” 

That idea was the most revolting. I could not believe that the last end was the most likely.

“But can that be true?” I cried to myself. “Can he be consciously drawing me into this sink of filth and iniquity? No, no, that cannot be! I am still in my senses. Or am I? Is he? And how can one talk, can one reason as he does? Doesn’t that all mean madness?” 

Soaked with perspiration and red as a tomato, I went to the table, closed the book, put out the candle and stormed out of the room.

It was the last time I sneaked into the library in the middle of the night. 


	7. VI

I WAS BORN with a leaden cowl upon my shoulders. Such cowl—namely, this Mosaic religion of ours, rendered impossibly perfect by Protestant hypocrisy, passed down to me from my father, and to my father from his father. I must admit, I always considered Christ's precepts mystic and felt myself completely in the right to ask questions in its regard. For instance, if a man commits adultery with a woman every time he looks at her, did I not sin in infancy, while my mother breastfed me? The question agitated me even more than I was myself aware; I kept uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this apparently ordinary contradiction.The upshot of all this was that, after considering that my blood was not parched even by the sight of the young school coquettes, I decided that there was no sin on my soul.   
In the past I instinctively avoided guys like me (that is, inexperienced kids) solely because I felt safer on a plane where nobody could even assume cranks like me existed.  
Whenever my schoolfellows spoke of women—and they did so often—I smiled knowingly, so that they soon came to the conclusion that 'still waters run deep.’ Excessive modesty in a young man is a thing you always blame deeply. ‘Cherchez la femme’, they say. I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. As to conversations about more intimate details of love battle, I avoided them as far as possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which I could make no answer. For example, my friends were very fond of telling obscene jokes—why, I did not exactly understand; for I had not the slightest idea even of what minette was; nor could I see that anything so loathsome could be turned into a joke. 

Still the sluggishness of a heart does not mean total callousness. Moreover, I had felt the first faint stimulus of love much earlier than I like to think. There was one moment when, nature being stronger than prejudice, I should right willingly have given up my soul to perdition. I shall tell you about it in its proper place, however.

***

I WOKE UP on top of smooth silk, surrounded by huge pillows worked in gold. Lamps of varied form filled the room with a strong red light. I raised my head and saw soft velvet divans, mattresses covered over with lions’ skins, and giant paintings of the most beautiful nature. From huge amber bowls rose full-blown red and pink roses. Bronzes, plaster casts and flowers emerged amidst deep-tinted silks of velvety softness, amidst sparkling crystals, china and opaline majolica. The room was not very large, and its walls were all covered with Persian rugs. The furnishing was peculiar, and I was if not dazzled, at least perfectly bewildered.  
Feeling faint, I fell onto soft pillows. It seemed as if I had been transported into the magic realms of fairy-land. The scent of roses intoxicated me. My mind was clouded, and my heartbeat was so slow that my head became desolate. It took me a while to realize that I lay fully naked, with my legs spread wide. Perhaps women in labor take a similar position. 

I turned to the wall. My arms and legs felt numb, as if shut down, but I did not attempt to move; I did not wish to. My body seemed to me delightfully light, and my slothful yet half-awakened mind was elsewhere. Strange to say, I seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm; not a trace of my recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted me of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden calm. I understood that I was unusually weak, but my intense spiritual concentration gave me strength and even self-confidence. I hoped, moreover, that I would not fall asleep, for I liked it here.   
All at once I was roused from my pleasant somnolence by the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps. I shuddered and came to my senses. Two fiery eyes were staring at me from the darkness of the doorway. I wasn’t ashamed. Moreover, for the first time in my life I found myself good-looking, entrancingly handsome even. Besides, even if I wanted to cover myself up, I would not be able to.

The stranger entered the room. He seemed to me somehow familiar. I had often seen him, that man, had seen him some time, and very lately too; where could it have been?

My heart was beating violently. The stranger came closer and suddenly looked at me with such a passionate and voluptuous longing, that I felt faint. Our eyes met, and a terrible anxiety overcame me. He seemed to be slowly drawing me to him, and the feeling was such a pleasant one that I yielded entirely to it. Dull pain spread all over my lower body, whilst I myself was in a state of prostration. Feverish shiver coursed throughout every vein of mine. I could by now get a full view of the guest. I looked full at him and almost cried out with amazement and horror, but the words did not come from my panting chest. He touched my knees, and I felt something hard press against my thigh. At that moment I was so terribly alarmed, that I shuddered, trying to say something… And woke up. 

I woke up, soaked with perspiration, with dull pain in my crotch. It was nearly six o’clock, and everyone in the barrack was still asleep. I lay on my bunk without moving, as though I were not yet quite certain whether I were awake or still asleep. In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. Such dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system. I suffered. My brain was aglow; my blood was over-heated; my body shivering with excitement. I sat up, rested my elbows on my knees and leaned my head on my hands. “It must be some fever coming on,” I thought, drawing deep breaths. “This damned book! It is cursed, no doubt… Good god!” 

The mere recollection made me feel sick. The thought of my father came to my mind, and I asked myself, shuddering, whether my senses were leaving me. Very soon, however, they began more clearly and more distinctly to receive their habitual and everyday impressions. The dirty green, dusty walls, a much-stained divan, the table painted grey, and the dress taken off in haste overnight and flung in a crumpled heap on the floor, looked at me familiarly. I could not possibly doubt that I was not in some sort of fairy-land, but in the serf barrack. When I had made this important discovery I nervously closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to get rid of the thoughts about this horrid dream. What happened at night had still tormented me. I could give a great deal to forget about this abomination. I would prefer not to know that a man, who already inflicted immense fear upon me, had such… Unusual predilections. “Perhaps the book does not even belong to him?” I mused. “What if he picked it by accident, just like me, unsuspecting? No, it cannot be. The library is his after all.” 

Grasping the idea about which my scattered and wandering thoughts had been revolving, I leapt out of bed at one bound and came to the divan. Then, hoping not to wake anyone up, I got down on my knees and took out a stack of newspapers from under it. 

“Only if I were to find some sort of rumor; a headline, a gossip, a joke! Maybe he had something embarrassing happen to him in public, or anything else unpleasant; for if he is actually ill…” 

My hands shook with nervous impatience as I turned the sheets. I found at last what I was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before my eyes, but I read it all and began eagerly going through the following numbers. Whenever the familiar name met my eyes the paper shook in my trembling hands. I expected to discover the innermost secret of his identity, something I had never dared to think of. However, all the rumors about him were solely political. Moreover, most of the time, even almost always, his name was connected with Jefferson’s name. Apparently, their careers were so inextricably intertwined that writing about them separately was considered a vice. As for the sordid details, that is, gossips of the piquant nature, I hadn’t found any. Frightful thoughts, assumptions and guesses weighted upon me, and vague questions surged through my mind.

At twenty past eight, when it was time for a wake-up call, I pretended as if I had just woken up. Then, after dressing up and making my bed, I left the barrack; I did not wish to wait in line in order to use the only sink.

I entered the bathroom and stared at myself within the looking-glass. Even though this sleepy pale physiognomy could have appeared to someone pathetic, I was completely satisfied with what I saw. I looked sickly, my eyes had dimmed, and of my youthful attractiveness (if there ever was any) nothing remained except perhaps that expression of a kind of wonderful helplessness. There was a bit of stiff stubble on my chin, and, even though I had never been a strong specimen of manhood, such occasion made me feel confident, proud even. “Perhaps a beard will grow!” 

It was a very ordinary morning and there was nothing exceptional about it. I was still much distracted by some inner overpowering agitation. It even occurred to me that I might try somehow to make up to Theodosia, to drop a hint in the course of conversation, saying, “This is how it is, what a striking likeness, a strange circumstance!” — that is, find out whether Hamilton was ill or not. I, however, only contemplated this; I thought better of it in time. I realized that this would be going too far. “No, I cannot do that. What if she thinks that I am interested? Such vileness!” I said to myself, tapping myself lightly on the forehead; “I must wait.” 

Some idea in the form of a question which I had not the strength to answer kept bothering me. A sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take possession of me; at moments I forgot myself: I almost let the spoon go past my mouth during breakfast, and then I knocked a plate off the table. Theodosia never ceased looking at me, shaking her head uneasily.

But soon something turned me away from what was troubling me a minute before.

“John!” 

Hamilton’s voice was muffled, as if it was coming from the parlor. Theodosia and I exchanged a short glance. Instantly she drew herself up on the chair and raised her eyebrows. We kept sitting like that for about ten seconds, eyeing each other persistently. 

“John!” 

The voice became louder, and there was now a gleam of irritation in it.

“His Excellency‘s callin’” said the cook in a hardly audible voice, as though there was something wrong with her throat or chest. All my mysterious panic was dispersed at those words. I jumped up from the table, excused myself and rushed into the parlor. In order not to raise suspicions, I firmly resolved in my heart to behave in future as if I did not read anything.

The parlor was empty. “Perhaps he did not await me? Changed his mind?” 

But my judgment was made too lightly and hastily: after all, there had always been something about Hamilton which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. I was convinced that he would not leave me in peace.

And I was right: the shrill voice called me back into the room.

“John, I am here!” 

It came from above. I raised my head. Hamilton stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with condescending interest down into the parlor.

Taken off guard, I said the first thing that came into my head.

“Hello!” 

My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the parlor. Hamilton’s lips were twisted in a smile. I went red. 

“Why hello, Monsieur Laurens,” shouted he. “Go to the dressing room, find a red suit and bring it to the bedroom. And hurry up!” 

I swallowed a lump in my throat; my heart was throbbing.

“Will you need cufflinks?”

  
“No!” 

He did not say anything else: he vanished. 

I was not fully conscious when I ascended the stairs. I was of course capable of reflecting that it might be far better not to say anything, leave as fast as possible without raising any suspicion. But I had so completely lost all power of dealing with anxiety that If Hamilton had asked me, “What happened?” I would perhaps have simply told him about the book. When a man is ashamed he generally begins to get nervous and is disposed to act foolish. I was afraid of it the most. 

After a minute I stood in front of two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits, waistcoats, ties and colorful shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. “Black, black, blue, black, white, green, black… Damn it all! Could he not find it by himself? Another blue one, a coat, a shirt… Here it is.” I finally found the red suit and took it out of the closet. I must have felt pretty weird by that time because I could think of nothing except the suit’s blood-like color. 

The door of Hamilton’s room was closed but not locked. I raised my hand and was going to knock, to be the correct thing. I did not want to be scolded for my manners. 

"It's unlocked," he said before I could acknowledge my presence. 

So I opened the door and entered the room, with a twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. I felt vexed at myself for acting like a frightened child.

“He is not a man... of honor, yes,” I thought. “But what’s so scary about him?” 

I found Hamilton standing by the closet, playing with a tie which hung around his neck. 

I had no sooner come in he took me in in a rapid attentive glance. It was impossible to guess from this glance whether he had come as a friend or as an enemy. He smiled at me; but I was in no smiling mood.

Making a respectful bow I said: 

“A suit, your Excellency. I hope I am not mistaken; there aren’t any red ones left.” 

I spoke rather loud to cover my growing excitement. Hamilton nodded and began taking his waistcoat off. Perhaps if not all the alarming questions which surged through my mind I would for sure reflect on his behavior. Why, for instance, would he undress in front of me, if he had been expecting me for about ten minutes? I felt all at once that it would be loathsome to look at him only in his chemise. “It is because I am very ill,” I decided at last, “Yesterday and in the morning I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing… I shall get well and I shall not worry… Good God, how sick I am of it all!”

I had a terrible longing for some distraction, but I did not know what to do. I could not just turn away and run from him. My spleen rose within me; this was an immeasurable, almost physical repulsion. “The timing couldn't have been worse,” raged I. “And how unlucky I must be that I have to see him the day after…” 

Meanwhile Hamilton threw his waistcoat on the bed, and with his arms dangling, leaned forward to get his shoes. 

“I am going to the post office,” he declared. “I must send out the party invitations. Do you like parties?” 

I was perplexed; I did not expect him to talk to me.

“I don’t know…” said I and added awkwardly: “No one told me you threw parties.” 

He bent down and began fumbling with the clasp of his shoe. Without lifting his eyes, but smiling quickly and slyly, he said:

“Well, I do throw parties. I am a reputable man with a reputation to protect.”

He suddenly turned to me, with a mysterious sparkle in his eyes.

“I know you like parties.” 

Hamilton confused me. The longer I looked at him, the more I suspected behind the invariable mask something spiteful, cunning, and intensely egoistic. My attention was particularly caught by his eyes: they were as if not completely under the control of his will. Perhaps he wanted to look mild and friendly, but the light in his eyes was as it were twofold, and together with the mild friendly radiance there were flashes that were cruel and spiteful.

“Well, it is very possible. But what made you think that?” mumbled I. Then, remembering that I ought to be more polite, I added:

“Your Excellency.” 

“I used to know your father in Congress,” Hamilton stood on his tiptoes and fetched a hat from the upper shelf. “In 1918, If memory serves.” 

I tensed up. 

“You… You know my father, Sir? He never told me about you…” I said slowly, ransacking my memory.

“How queer,” Hamilton put on a hat and began adjusting his tie. “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with him… By accident. What a shame not to have a quick talk with a man in such high command. And as I had come as a visitor and as a subordinate official of Mr. Jefferson, he deigned to speak with some openness… The subject was the liberal youth, that is, abolitionists who were at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark. ‘We are not particularly afraid,’ said he, ‘of all these abolitionists and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who grew up in proper republican households, but at the same time are liberals.’ And then he told me about you. 

“About me?”

Hamilton nodded, glanced at me, and slightly screwed up his eyes.

“Almost a madman and at any rate, a perfectly useless creature, undoubtedly, given to drinking and parties,” Hamilton smirked and shrugged. “Well, and so on. There’s no point in saying it; the words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me… You also were at this reception, were you not?” 

I knew that my father did not love me very much, and therefore those words did not surprise me. Sir Henry was right when he called me a ‘useless creature’. I have always been impressionable, passionate, stubborn, and, above all, did not live up to his expectations.

‘In that life there will be no mistakes,’ said he when I was only five years old, and as it was characteristic of him to attach himself doggedly and passionately to any dream that fascinated him, he made up his mind at once to raise me as a true gentleman. Teachers came for me from Europe, among them a real Frenchman, who taught me French. There were Germans, British and even a Russian — he was quickly dismissed, however. Play and childish mischief was forbidden to me. I had to go to morning service and to early mass. When I met priests or monks I had to kiss their hands; at home I had to sing hymns. I was taken to a Sunday school as soon as I was eight years old. Father talked little to me and did not often interfere with me, but I was always morbidly conscious of his intent, searching eyes. Yet at that time his faith in me was unshaken; I was to inherit his plantation and to take over the family business.

One can’t help believing that such upbringing had rather a bad influence on my nerves. When at thirteen I was taken to a law school I was fragile-looking and pale, strangely quiet and dreamy. (Later on I was distinguished by the opposite). I had been studying there for about six years, rarely came to visit, and never bothered writing proper letters. Sir Henry sent me money without stint. He took great interest in his son’s success in education. Where he had failed, the wealthy young man with expectations succeeded.

But very soon, five years later to be exact, rather strange rumors reached him. His son had suddenly taken to riotous living with a sort of frenzy. There was only talk of savage recklessness, of drinking and partaking in “questionable activities”. There was a callous nastiness about this affair. It was added, too, that it had something to do with abolitionism. Father probably assured himself that this was only the first riotous effervescence of a too richly endowed nature, and that the storm would subside, and with feverish impatience he awaited answers to some of his letters.

He had not long to wait for them. The fatal news soon reached him that his son had been involved in two illegal protests, had openly called himself an abolitionist and had been seen visiting a certain type of underground pubs — those where the transvestites and other lunatics came around. The case ended in a large penalty (by special favor), my being expelled from law school and transferred back to South Carolina. Needless to say, my true nature instilled great disappointment into my father. I succeeded in reaching the deepest chords in his soul, and had aroused in him a sensation of that eternal, sacred yearning which some parents can never give up when once they have tasted and known it.

Formerly, when I used to come home for the holidays, I had the honor of attending father’s receptions and dinner parties. Now I was not even allowed to show up in public. Father harboured a deep resentment against me, and, as if trying to rid himself of a shameful mark, pretended that he had never had a son. That’s why Hamilton’s words did not make any sense to me.

“You must be confused,” I mumbled with painful distrust. “I was not at this reception.”

“Perhaps you have forgotten?” Hamilton observed.

“No, I have not forgotten; it would be ridiculous if I did not remember. Perhaps you have merely heard about me and formed some idea, and thus made the mistake that you had seen me.”

“I cannot be that I mistook you for someone else,” he insisted. “You are a copy of your father.” 

I glanced at him even more incredulously. It is true that I somewhat resembled Sir Henry— not so much in facial features but in the tonality of my general appearance: the brown shade of the round head, big protruding ears, the slenderness of the neck with the shadow of a hollow at its nape. I even sat in the same pose father sometimes assumed—head slightly lowered, legs crossed,

arms not so much crossed as hugging each other, as if I felt chilled, so that the repose of the body was expressed more by angular projections and the contraction of all the members rather than by the general softening of the frame. As for the face, there was perhaps no resemblance at all; there might have been something in common in the wide-set eyes. . . but no, one couldn't tell exactly what our relationship was at a glance, especially when looking from a distance. 

Hamilton lied, and lied openly. Both of us perfectly knew that I could not be present that evening, and that I was only faintly like my father. But why , I mused hurriedly, why is he lying? 

“And it would be hard to forget you anyway,” added Hamilton after a moment’s silence. 

“Why?” 

He was quiet for some time, and then, fixing his glittering black eyes upon me, uttered with a strange smile:

“You are exceptionally beautiful.” 

Silence. I felt myself grow pale and then red. My lips parted like a dumb man’s. Even through the appalling irrelevance of this compliment, I was reminded of something—a fragment of lost words, that I had heard— or, most likely, read— somewhere a long time ago. I immediately came to the conclusion that he, perhaps, had realized that I saw through it, and therefore decided to dismiss me with a joke, that on some other occasion could have been perceived as a compliment. 

Alas! I was utterly unable to grasp his meaning. Or rather, I got it wrong— really, really wrong. 

His face, which had till then been so immovable, showed traces of disturbing thought, of a sort of uneasy agitation. He anxiously reached for his hat and cleared his throat. 

Why of course, I thought, It is a joke, and so it must be funny… 

Then I looked up and answered with a somewhat piteous smile; a smile of a child who was given a geography book instead of a parrot for their birthday. Though it seemed to be enough for Hamilton. To my pitiful and distracted smile he answered with a smile of a sort of strange ecstasy. He got me wrong, too.

“Anyhow, I'm going to town,” said he. “Watch the house, please.” 

And then, with a very serious look, he added:

“I accept your services with much appreciation.” 

I stood as if thunderstruck, unable to utter a single word. Hamilton came closer and turned his back to me. Only then I remembered about the suit and helped him put it on. I bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with myself for it; after all, Hamilton did not seem to be intending to go anywhere yet. Suddenly his face became graver, and he bent closer to me. My legs felt weak: either from fear or embarrassment. He was scrutinizing my face obstinately and closely for some few moments; then he lowered his gaze and asked, screwing up his eyes:

“What is that?”

So keen was the confusion that overcame me, that I did not understand what he meant. 

“Sorry,” quoth I. 

Hamilton ruthlessly kept me in this position for a long time, ten seconds or even more, staring at me without mercy. He raised his hand and touched my chin with his finger; then pondered for a moment. 

“Shave this off. I don’t like it.” 

  
THIS MEETING had left a great impression which I could not analyze. After Hamilton left, I still stood in the middle of the room with my eyes fixed with a senseless stare on the door. This conversation seemed strange to me. I feared him no less than before; perhaps, indeed, my feeling was stronger, more poignant than ever. But at the same time, new suspicions were taking a strong hold on my heart. This strange, rugged man, all bristles on the surface, was suddenly all softness and shining gladness. I saw how awkwardly he tried to control himself, and to make a pretense of kindness, how he affected to be cheerful, tried to laugh and amuse me. But why? 

“That’s how he is,” I thought, sitting down on the bed. “that’s how he always is with me; does he not know that I understand all his tricks? Why should he keep up a pretense? He’s always like that. And with Jefferson, too…” 

The telephone rang in the office, startlingly, and all my thoughts vanished into the air. 

I sat for a time, listening to the jangling peal, and then shook my head, as if for myself. Hamilton left the residence about ten minutes ago, and I had not been given the right to answer the telephone. Though after a minute of deafening ringing I began to grow more and more irritated.

The telephone soon stopped ringing, only to resume with renewed vigor after half a minute.

I stood up. 

It has happened before, I thought. Why am I doing this again? 

The ringing went on and on, with brief pauses to catch its breath. Unable to hold out, with a curse I gained the office phantom-fast. Long, long ago my present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and gathered strength, until it had taken the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured my heart and mind, clamoring insistently for action. Now the telephone had burst on me like a thunderclap. It was clear that I must not now suffer passively, worrying myself over unsolved questions, but that I must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. 

After listening to the ringing for some more, and after repeating the same thought out loud, I decided that my mischief will not harm anyone: after all, I only intended to say that Hamilton wasn’t home. Truthfully, I was so deprived of communication with the outside world that I longed to do anything, whatever it might be. I stretched my hand toward the telephone and put the receiver to my ear. 

“Hello?” came from the receiver. 

I was silent for a long while, as though I could not answer. Then, however, I mustered up the courage. 

“Hello,” said I, bowing to the telephone, “Hamilton's residence is on the line… But he is not here. Not at home, I mean. He is not at home.” 

I nervously pinched a fold in my skirt. There was a long silence on the other end of the wire. I was going to hang up the telephone, but it was too late: 

“Who is talking?” 

Loudly, so that it even tickled my middle ear, an extraordinarily nimble and distinct voice seemed familiar to me. I sighed, settling my tone more comfortably.

“The ma— the butler. The butler is talking.” 

I felt my determination give way, for I did not wish to smear the conversation around. Again we were both silent.

“John? Is that you?” *

The voice sounded new, suave and inviting. I shrugged and fixed my hair mechanically. 

“Yes… Yes, it is me.” 

God, how stupid I am, thought I. Hamilton will surely find out about this! Why did I say this? What a terrible idea!” 

“Excuse me, but I must go,” I mumbled hurriedly. 

“Wait, wait!” interrupted the voice. “Please don't ring off. I wish to talk to you. It’s Mr. Jefferson.” 

Of course. How could I not recognize this differentially familiar, but rather pleasant, voice? A voice with a suave intonation, such as is affected by planters…

Upon hearing his name, I nearly knocked the humidor off the table; I tried to catch it, and it was then that I did knock it off; then I bumped my hip against the comer of the table. The terrible, withering glance came to my mind. In terror lest this conversation should prove to be an illusion, a deception of my fancy, I put the receiver back to my ear. My heart was beating violently. 

“John?” 

Not a delusion! Jefferson, really Jefferson, undoubtedly Jefferson…

“I am not allowed to… With you…” I began with agitated haste. 

“Excuse me, excuse me!” uninterrupted Jefferson. “You can be sure Mr. Hamilton will not know about this conversation.” 

For a moment I thought I would have a fainting fit. I faltered impulsively in a half-whisper: 

“What do you want, Sir?” 

_Why would he talk to me?_

Not that I was brought to a pitch of stupidity, as it usually happened with me because of fear. But of that —of that I did not forget. I stared straight before me, as though seeing nothing, and watched as I, myself, lay on the floor in a puddle of red wine. I kept imagining that something new would emerge, something else would happen, and the mere thought threw me into a tremor.

“I expected to speak with you personally,” began Jefferson. “But, unfortunately, I will not be able to make it to the party… The one that is happening in two days. Do you know about it?” 

I nodded, and then, realizing that he could not see me, mumbled something in agreement. 

“So you do know. Anyways, regarding my last visit… That is, everything that took place during my visit. You understand me, do you?” 

I swallowed a lump in my throat.

“I do.” 

“You see, I did not want this to happen. And it would not have happened if…” 

I may remark that he was exceptionally reserved and courteous; it surprised me. The masters are not to speak with serfs— other’s serfs in particular. Conversations may happen, but can never be fully candid. What’s more, there must be certain subtleties in the disregard for serfs: you may, for instance, tell something, but tell exactly as much as someone needs to know who is used for running errands. No one deigns to set serfs at ease by friendly candor, and no one ever apologizes for it. Is it worth caring about the feelings of a soulless creature? By the tone of Jefferson’s words I noticed then that he had some serious, sincere concern. It struck me unpleasantly. 

“As though I know why a man of certain convictions would act as he does… Still I am very sorry. Mr. Laurens, I wish to make every possible apology.” 

He showed remorse. This cruel, disgusting man! Of course, at first I considered it half as a joke; but all the same he said it much too seriously. So how did he look at me then? This was going beyond the bounds of slavery and nonentity. To have such a view is to raise a man to one’s own level. And however absurd, however unbelievable our conversation was, my heart shook.

“Alright,” I muttered, utterly disconcerted.

Jefferson was quiet for some time.

“How is your back, by the way?”

“Very well.” 

It was a lie. Over the past weeks the pain from the lash did not go off. I could not sleep, could not wash in hot water, I became slow and weak. Though I saw no point in telling this. The absurdity of this dialogue still troubled me.

“I am glad,” answered Jefferson. 

There was a moment of strange silence. I waited for him to say something else. 

“Well, I shall delay you no further,” said he at last. “No need to gossip so much. Au revoir, then?”

“Au revoir.”

There was a crack followed by a tinkle on the other end, and then everything went quiet. I put the receiver back and fell into the chair. In spite of my weakness I was not conscious of anxiety. It was as though an abscess that had been forming for two weeks past in my heart had suddenly broken. But why, I asked myself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance conversation happened so late? As though it had been lying in wait for me on purpose, and happened when I was just in the very mood and in the very circumstances.

This was, perhaps, a trap. There was certainly something that I did not know about— some objective prepared long ago. Or maybe not. To be honest, I do not fully grasp Jefferson’s intentions to this very day. 

  
***

  
THE DAY after the notification of an upcoming party, a corps of caterers came down with dozens of boxes of alcohol, fruits, and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Hamilton’s mansion. Male serfs mowed the lawn, Vella decorated the house with flowers, I washed the floors, and Theodosia was busy on the kitchen. Hamilton bustled about, seeing to everything, rushed around the house and asked everyone whom he passed if “everything’s alright?” He looked frowning and anxious; all his assumed determination and insolent bravado had vanished. Besides, he was continually and fussily asking for my advice, even though I scarcely answered him.Such conduct seemed to me rather weird, but I ascribed it to nothing but party pressure. 

On the next day, on Saturday, the surrounding territory bloomed with illumination, In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and on small buffet tables spiced baked hams crowded against varied salads and pastry pigs. By five o’clock the jazz orchestra had arrived—no thin five-piece affair but a whole pitful. Street serfs, clean shaven and dressed as lackeys, were pacing the parlor with trays in their arms. By seven o’clock the cars from the city were parked two deep in the drive. Before I knew it, the air was alive with chatter and laughter and enthusiastic meetings between young women wrapped up in peculiar shawls. The floating rounds of cocktails permeated the garden, heads smeared with hair-gel glistened in the hall, and the saxophone began wheezing in the parlor.

Half an hour later the master of the house came down to the parlor; dressed in a white flannel suit, white shirt and gold-colored tie, he was pale and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. However, Hamilton welcomed the guests as though nothing had happened — with an accustomed affectation of kindness. 

At this party I was forced to play the utterly stupid role of a clown— that is, a lackey, to meet and entertain some rich and extremely dull factory owners, impossibly ignorant and shameless, pale girls in identical dresses, and pathetic little magazine midges, who arrived in fashionable jackets and with a vanity and conceit of dimensions inconceivable even in New-York–which is saying a lot. They even ventured to make fun of me. No wonder: Hamilton did not let me dress as a man. Clean shaven, in a maid dress and with my hair pulled tight I looked like a scarecrow. In one word, all this was loathsome to me in the highest degree.

The bar was in full swing, stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials of such varied kind that even I did not know one from another. I got the chance to sip a glass or two; in the back room, away from Theodosia’s searching eyes. Laughter was easier, charleston was sloppier, minute by minute, while tipsy republicans kept pestering me with heartfelt conversations. Some of them mistook me for a woman; perhaps they couldn’t see the obvious difference (or simply didn’t want to see). 

I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when the events took a strange, unexpected turn. 

I was so exhausted by what I had passed through that evening that I could only decide such questions in one way; “then damn them all,” I thought in cold despair. I went upstairs and entered one of the guest rooms — for no particular reason. A sudden anguish oppressed my heart: I was about to turn back wondering why I had come here, when suddenly by the window I saw a man with a pipe in his mouth. The man was silently watching and scrutinising me. He took the pipe out of his mouth, and a sly smile came into his face, growing broader and broader. On the windowsill beside him stood an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne.

“He-he, just when I was about to search for a waiter,” said he. “Please, take that away.” 

He nodded toward the bottle. He had a rather unpleasant face, like a mask; with bright red lips and thick flaxen hair. I came closer, took the bottle and made haste to leave.

“Are you a man or a woman?” asked he, looking inquisitively at me. 

“I am in a hurry,” I muttered wearily. “Sorry.” 

“Alright, let us leave you alone. You had better tell me, do you know where your master is? I’ve been searching for him everywhere…” 

He screwed up his eyes, looking slyly at me. “Why in such haste?” 

I frowned. He was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so.

“Everyone has his own plans. And why have you been searching for him?” 

“You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at my question you refuse to answer,” the man observed with a smile. “You look at me with suspicion. Of course it’s perfectly natural in your position… He-he! The game isn’t worth the candle! See, I am a journalist. Mr. S-y, if you will…” 

I turned cold. I had always felt convinced that journalists were the most worthless scoundrels on the face of the earth.

“And what can I say?” continued the journalist. “Why, I need him simply as an interesting subject for observation. I like the fantastic nature of his position—that’s what it is! I shall come up with something to ask… Perhaps he will tell me something new. Do you know where he is?”

“I do not.”

The journalist sighed. 

“Still I must admit that your question is rather complex. I confess that I hastened here for the sake of the women. Though you probably would not like it if I suddenly started talking about women?

I glanced at him in complete bewilderment.

“I do not understand…”

“Surely you know what I mean,” persisted S-y with a sly smile. — You know, on my way here I was reckoning on you, on your telling me something new, too…”

“What are you talking about?!” said I, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. “If you are here for me, just say it! Why hanging about me...”

“Alright, alright,” S-y smiled with engaging candor. “I have been most interested to hear what happened to you, Mr. Laurens. You are a recognizable face after all. Well, that's why I am here; everybody knows that you are in Mr. Hamilton’s service now.”

I clenched my fists.

“What are you?”

“What am I? You know: Samuel S-y, a journalist. And you… You must actually be a transvestite. What an interesting article it will be... Hm! Where are you off to?”

I backed away. 

“A-ach! Sit down, Mr. Laurens, stay a little!” S-y hiccuped. “Stay a little, I won’t talk nonsense, about you, I mean. If you like I’ll tell you about Hamilton. It will be an answer to your first question indeed. Well, what do you say?” 

I already stood in the doorway and looked wildly at him.

“I shall bring him here… I shall bring him to you. Just wait for a minute.” 

I went out without waiting for an answer. Everything was in a turmoil within me.

“An article… An article!” muttered I, pacing the corridor. “I should have kept quiet. A couple of words and the entire country thinks of me as a transvestite. Thank you, Mr. journalist! Not only that, but he will surely make up some other… Words, to complete the picture. One must cut one’s coat according to one’s cloth, right? Father will read it, he will find out, he will believe… And how will he feel then? Even now he is uneasy, he is worried, but then, when he sees it all clearly? And I? It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shall not, it shall not! I won’t accept it!” 

I suddenly paused in my reflection and stood still.

“But what if nothing happens? If nothing happens at all?” I continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain. “If I bring him Hamilton? Perhaps he will forget about me. Yes, I must, I must bring Hamilton to him.”

The journalist was right about one thing, though — Hamilton vanished as if he'd fallen through the earth. After searching the first floor and the garden I went to the door of the room where he had probably shut himself up; that is, the office. I took hold of the handle and listened warily. I was in agonies, trembling at the necessity of action and my own indecision, until there was a sudden rustle from the other side of the door, followed by soft laughter. At last I again approached the door, but managed awkwardly: my hand trembled, the handle clanked, as if by itself, there was a rattle and a creak.

I had been able to see very little in the second I held the door open; I only caught a glimpse of Hamilton’s face. But when I opened it fully I stopped short again, still more overcome, horror-stricken.

And what a sight did I see. 

Hamilton sat on the divan, slightly leaning back, and on his lap there was a woman; one of her arms encircled his waist, while the other was round his neck. She had on a tight-fitting white dress. The woman was clinging to him like the ivy to the oak, rubbing against him like a cat, and kissing him with as much evident pleasure as if she were a famished baby taking her nurse's breast. He kissed back, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and squeezing her breasts. I heard mingled sighs and panting, dying in stifled kisses given by lips that still cleaved languidly to each other; The pleasure they received thereby was so thrilling that they saw nothing but each other's faces. I foolishly remained stock still—speechless and dumbfoundered. The power of this blissful intoxicating lust was so intense that I unconsciously threw myself into a kind of trance. 

Their entrance would have lasted several seconds more, had the woman not lost her breath. She turned around and, upon seeing me, flushed red with embarrassment. A moment, and a piercing, shrill cry rang through the air. I instantly came to my senses and recoiled, as though someone blasted me with cold water.

Poor girl! She got as red as a peony, burst into tears and stormed out of the room. She didn’t even adjust her skirt. 

In a terrible confusion I felt myself grow red and shuddered as if I had received a strong electric shock.

“Forgive me… Jesus Christ, Forgive me,” I mumbled, breathing painfully. “I didn’t want to…” 

Despondent, flustered and embarrassed. I didn’t know what to do. had never expected that I would ever find myself in such an awkward situation. I received an impression unlike anything I had known before. At the same time I realized clearly that all my concerns were false—so false that I felt positively ashamed of them. And what right, indeed, did I have to judge Hamilton so hastily? I caught him with a woman, after all.

Though his reaction was so unexpected that the murderous shame within me was immediately replaced by unprecedented confusion.

Instead of being angry, ashamed or disappointed, Hamilton straightened up, fixed his tie and said, as if nothing happened:

“Well, damn her then.” 

He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his smile.

Suddenly he turned pale, got up from the divan, looked at me, and without uttering a word sat back. 

My sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when I had broken into the office. The only difference was that now Hamilton was in my shoes.

“What’s the matter?” asked I, dreadfully frightened.

“Nothing... It’s nonsense. It really is nonsense, if you think of it,” he muttered, like a man in delirium. “Why torturing myself?” 

He was drunk— very drunk, I dare say. I was about to bow and leave, but Hamilton was suddenly changed. Even his voice was suddenly weak.

“Stay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * — In the Russian version Jefferson uses the most polite and respectful way of addressing, somewhat equivalent to 'Sir'.


End file.
